pooper scooper

I don't have a dog. I probly never will. And even if I did decide someday to share my life with a sycophantic drool factory, it is highly unlikely I would be one of those nice dog owners who carry baggies along on walks. I've done some poop scooping in my day. I know the inverted bag method, it's not so bad. That gentle give of warm fresh dog sh*t as it melts unexpectedly into the shape of your hand is almost even pleasant. It's just fundamentally wrong.

And yet, every day for the last week I have been just a little bit angry at whichever neighbor it is who shares my preference to let sleeping poops lie. The feces that offends me has been curing in the sun, just a little drier each day, on the asphalt beneath my mail box.

This turd doesn't restrict my access to my precious postal products. till, its very presence sucks all of the joy out of going to the box. My mail is only marginally interesting anyway - 80% unsolicited crap, 10% semi-enjoyable still unsolicited catalogs, 9% bills I pay on line anyway, 1% something I'm actually looking for - I know this. While my rational mind knows my mail is worthless, a part of me enjoys opening the box each day, peering into the darkness inside, rifling through the contents in search of some piece of correspondence I totally don't deserve.

Now I fear stepping on the dog log, my eyes affixed anxiously on it in case I forget it is there. I am convinced that like a wound on my husband I will be inexplicably drawn into contact with it. The day I lose my focus is the day I step in it. And now after I collect my mail, I no longer sort through it in place for fear of dropping it in the dog doo. Most likely all that will fall is one of those "Have you seen me?" cards that accompany the Advo packet. But even those I check diligently, just in case one day I realize I have in fact seen someone. And then could I leave it there, on the black top, that piece of mail I didn't ask for that made contact with the piece of sh*t that isn't mine? think not. And yet, could I really pick it up?

I have no hope and I have no plan. The turd is way too close to the curb to ever be run over, carried off in someone's tire. And the weather's been great, no rain in sight. I keep wondering, where are all those coprophagic dogs who might consume for me this delicacy? Isn't it their duty to deal with this dookie? I suppose I could attack it with my own hose but, like the frustrated cat lady, it would be a bit of a stretch. And besides, I keep imagining a single stray stream ricocheting off the stagnant stool and straight into my eye.

So I wait. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Someday this ass apple will disintegrate, right?

In the meanwhile, while working on my increasingly frustrating totally fruitless so-called novel for National Novel Writing Month, I was using the internet to search for synonyms for poop. I particularly enjoyed this sight and I happily borrowed from it the phrase intestinal sculpture. On this page I found a link to a product that I had discovered myself just moments before. The turd twister, as it's called, is like the play-doh pumper but for your butt. I can't imagine that it actually works (or that it was ever meant to) but if anyone is seriously willing to try it I am more than happy to fork over the $19.95 to find out. I will not, however, fish the device out of the plumbing (personal or porcelain), though I will gladly accompany the user to the ER - so long as I can have a copy of the X-rays.