It's a Poo Thing

I love my dogs. I really, really do. I just need to remember that they're getting old. JoJo has already tipped over into her teens. Not only is she geriatric, asthmatic, and terribly arthritic, but is also now totally incapable of holding her Number Two potties. Another fact I really need to remember when I go stumbling into the living room in the darkened a.m. hours. If I don't, I will most likely step in it.

Just like I did this morning.

It’s a good thing I had socks on. Gag reflex in full force, it was all I could do to remove the offensively coated sock and fling it, along with its thankfully pristine mate, out onto the back porch to remain there until such time it dries thoroughly enough for me to be able to . . . Gee, I dunno. I don’t see myself tossing it into the washer. Wouldn’t all that poo residue infect the other items? And if I wash it all by its lonesome, well that’s just wasteful. I think my only recourse is to throw it away and use its mate as a dust rag. See, I’m just that way about poo.

It’s one of the reasons I never wanted to have children.

With children, poo is what you put up with for, oh, I’d say the better part of 5 to 6 years. During which time I would quite likely go stark raving mad from changing poo-packed diapers and cleaning poo-smeared walls and wiping poo-filled bottoms. And would therefore be rendered incapable of carrying on parental duties from that point forward. Plus, children do not come with manuals and I, for one, do not task well without directions.

But that's just me. Feel perfectly free to shout from the rooftops – hell make a You Tube video out of it if you like – just how much you love being a parent and find it the most fulfilling work ever.

In spite of my love of all things canine, I have also never raised a dog from a pup. Neither do I bond with the puppies at the pound. Nope, there are plenty of other tender-hearted suckers to do that. The last time I ventured into the pound pup kennel I was greeted by no less than six wiggly bottomed Rottweiler cross puppies with wuv in their eyes and – you guessed it – poo on their paws. I did what I had to do (administer Frontline between their – thank God – poo-free shoulder blades) and then hightailed it over to the staff room where I batted my eyelashes at one of the few male staffers in existence and asked him in my best pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top-of-it-never-mind-the-braces voice if he could go clean up the mess in building one’s puppy cage because I had to rush back home to meet a deadline.

Nope, it’s adult dogs all the way for me. Because unless they happen to get hold of some particularly nasty varmint and not only kill said varmint but proceed to make it a mid day snack, then adult dog poo is perfectly manageable. Even geriatric poo emissions. Unless you do what I did and actually step in the stuff, it comes out in pretty decently solid chunks. To dispose, simply wad up half a roll of paper towels and then with a sort of duck-squat-reach maneuver just far enough away from the poo so as not to engage the gag reflex but still close enough to grab it with outstretched hand and wadded paper towel, enfold that sucker up safely in the wad and rush to the trashcan to deposit with nary a hacking sound. Voila, it’s now in the hands of Mora and Sons Trash Pick-Up.

Now, you show me a parent who can do that with their human children’s poo.