The other afternoon I was headed down the street, a leash attached to my dog Rio in one hand and a cell phone held against my ear in the other. I was talking to a friend about a nonprofit she runs, Heart Gallery Philadelphia, an organization that gives face and voice to children needing to find permanent loving families. Right in the middle of the conversation, Rio stops abruptly, assumes position, and casually does his business. As his owner and good citizen, I know its my business to clean it up.
Business or not, I am not ready to end the conversation, so I cradle the phone under my chin and begin to crouch down. I remove my new leather gloves, watching that my wool scarf does not accidentally brush up against the steaming pile Rio has just left. I try desperately to maneuver – the phone, the plastic bag, the scarf, but the phone won’t stay under my chin and I realize that I can not do what needs to be done with just one hand. Scooping poop into a bag is definitely a two-handed job. “You know, Terry,” I say to my friend, “sometimes I just can’t believe I do this. I’ll call you back.”
Besides wondering if using a plastic bag to dispose of dog waste is more ecological than leaving it on the grass, I will tell you that I hate to pick up dog shit. Yes, they’re our best friends and we love them madly – madly enough to buy them toys and clothes and send them to doggy day care, but somehow, it seems just a little crazy, doesn’t it?
Now don’t get me wrong, I am the last person who thinks we should just let it stand where it lands. I spent five years in Paris, and at the time, the city was overrun with dogs. And dog shit… which I was constantly stepping in. Merde alors. If it was anywhere on the sidewalk, street, curb, under a café table, on the steps of the Metró, I managed to step in it. I hate stepping in dog shit – anywhere. In Paris, New York, Copacabana beach or Moorestown, New Jersey. So I understand you dog haters out there.
In fact, those years in Paris put me right off dogs for sometime, until years later my daughter, then ten, hounded me into adopting a black and white mutt from the pound. Now, I love my dog. I love my daughter too, but I do not want to follow her around scooping up after her either. In fact, I was not all that crazy about changing her diaper when she was an adorable rosy-bottomed baby those many years ago. Imagine how I feel about scooping up Rio’s –a real dirt bag who will eat just about anything – rotten or not.
But ironically, much as I hate the poop I’m scooping, I am intrigued by it. As if he were my baby, I vigilantly check Rio’s fecal matter every time. I make a mental note of consistency, color and formation. I examine the quality; assess the quantity. How many times does that make today, I ask myself. You’d think his elimination was vital to my well-being. Surely it must be a natural by-product of picking up someone else’s shit. You just can’t help analyzing what it all means. Has he eaten today? What exactly has he eaten? When did he eat all that grass? No more table food for him.
I call Terry back after the prized excrement is tied and wrapped securely. She understands my musings. She tells me she often wonders what aliens might think of this particularly absurd human scene. “They must be scratching their little pointed heads,” she says laughing. Indeed.
Sixties Chick 