With dogs, poop is a major separator. If you manage your poop well, you are ultimately a good dog, even when you screw up in other areas. If you poop irregularly, or without proper form and constitution, or – worst of all – inside a home or office, well, you are a bad dog and always will be. Nothing will get you off the hook.
Needless to say, I am a good dog, and I have been since early in my illustrious career. Housebreaking was never a problem. I have pooped outside the house, and with generally good form and scheduling, almost from the very beginning of my stay with Mike and Heather. Almost. Nobody’s perfect.
Even so, the practice of pooping is still among the highlights of my day, and a constant topic of household conversation. Did she? What time was it? How many today? Do you think she’ll need to before she goes to bed? Their questions are endless, the answers seldom definitive or reassuring. As in baseball, you’re only as good as the next day’s starting pitcher.
There’s also the problem of what to do with it. Mike and Heather deftly scoop it from the ground and tie it up in little bags culled from the Seattle Times and Fred Meyer produce, then cut in half and tied at one end to turn each bag into two. How green of them. Despite the massive quantities of food I consume (in my dreams), my Tootsie Rolls just ain’t that big. The twin bags are compact, secure and easy to hold until the disposal stage of the process.
Mike likes to get rid of the filled bag as soon as possible, surrendering it gladly to the nearest parks department receptacle. Heather, on the other hand, often chooses to hold onto it, not wanting to burden the park maintenance staff with hauling my latest deposit off to a dumpster or landfill. That Heather is always trying to make the world a better place.
There are times that it comes back to bite her, however. At least once every couple of weeks, Heather forgets to remove my little gift from her coat pocket before putting the coat in the closet. Sometimes she compounds the problem by switching to another coat, leaving the baggie to commingle with all the others in there. When she gets that coat out of the closet again in a week or two or three, she finds a little surprise. Recently she found a baggie that was so hard that she figured it might have been there for months.
So that’s when Mike and Heather were force to admit it. Until Heather’s visual discovery of those pocketed bags, no one had once noticed them or remarked of their presence. Not only could they not be seen or heard, but nobody’s nose detected a thing. (Well, maybe mine did, but if so I’m sure as hell not telling!)
Instead, Heather’s little experiment presented irrefutable evidence:
My shit don’t smell. And I won’t let anyone forget it, either.