Our dog poops.*
Toby is, I swear, the absolutely best dog that has ever lived.** He is my buddy, almost always by my side, looking up at me, hoping that it’s time for something.
But he has this one solid-waste-related drawback: He does, in fact, poop.
We knew he would poop when we got him almost 11 years ago. We didn’t even ask the breeder “Will he poop?” We just assumed he would.
What we didn’t know back then was that we’d one day own property for him to poop on.
When we lived in our condo townhouse in Westchester, we picked up the poop because leaving it there was disgusting and, besides, if we didn’t pick it up, the condo police might do something to us, like exhibit us in the stocks by the swimming pool.*** And it’s not like we could have left Toby’s poop on the ground and gotten away with it; he eats a lot of carrots, and sometimes his poop comes out day-glo orange. You wouldn’t exactly need a CSI team to find the culprit.
We used the plastic bags that newspapers get delivered in to pick up the poop, and we’d drop it into the dumpster that served all the units around our house. Once, we started to run short of the bags, and I ordered like a gazillion of them online. We still have them. We moved with them.
Now that we own our property, there’s no one to tell us what we can or cannot do regarding Toby’s poop. I know homeowners who just leave it out there on the theory that it will fertilize the lawn. We could pick it up and fling it into the trees behind the house. And I suppose we could also pick up the poop, carry it into the house, drop it into the toilet, and flush. And then do something else with the icky bag.
Complicating matters is the fact that Toby is not a one-spot pooper. I don’t mean that he doesn’t always poop in the same spot; I mean that he moves while he’s pooping. He’ll start over here, and end up over there, and meanwhile you’re bending behind him trying to pick up what he just did while watching to see where he’s going next. Sometimes he’ll fake you out; you think he’s finished, and you tie up the bag, and then he starts going again.
We call that a two-bagger.
This time of year, there’s an additional problem: you can’t find the poop among the leaves. You bend down with your bag, targeting that long, brown thing you could swear just came out of his ass, only to be disappointed in discovering it’s just a rolled up leaf. And meanwhile, Toby’s pooping somewhere else.
Anyway, after decades of city and condo living with dogs, I’m conditioned to pick up poop and drop it into some sort of receptacle. I really don’t want to leave it where it lays because it will attract flies and, in the winter, steam comes out of it and then it freezes solid which somehow makes it even more disgusting, although I’m not sure why because at least it doesn’t squish anymore. And I don’t like flinging it into the woods, because whenever I do, I always manage to hit a tree with a loud SPLAT and then it hangs there for awhile until it eventually falls off like an old suction cup.
The solution we came up with is to have a trash can in the garage with a garbage bag in it. We put the bagged poop in there and throw it out on trash days. I’ve considered leaving the poop can outside permanently, but it doesn’t seem to be stinking up the garage, and I’m afraid a big gust of wind will come along and knock the poop can over and there’d be these little wind-blown newspaper bags full of poop floating all over the place like poop balloons. (Poopaloons!)
See you soon.
*But at least he’s not Zeus, the dog I mentioned in my previous post, a giant animal that must create ponderous piles of poop you’d need a shovel to pick up.
**If you have a dog, you might disagree, but you’d be wrong.
***Not really. They only had gallows.