The Doggie To-Do(Doo)

There are a few downsides to owning a dog. They certainly don’t outweigh the upsides, but waking up in the morning would be slightly more pleasant if Charlie hadn’t snuck onto the bed in the night and spread eagled his back legs next to my face. Then there’s the toxic gases he produces at night if he’s fed something out of the ordinary – which I could cope with if he didn’t insist on sleeping under my bed directly beneath me.

To say Charlie has a delicate constitution is something of an understatement. This is not well matched with my mother’s favourite way of expressing her love: feeding. At my house, Charlie is fed kibble. It’s safe. At my mother’s, by contrast, Charlie eats steak. I kid you not. Steak bought from the farm shop (so it’s super expensive) no less. Or roast lamb. With gravy. And trimmings. It is no wonder that Charlie worships my mother.

I, however, do not. You see, there is a predictable backlash to Charlie’s gastronomic gorges. And I wonder if indeed this is where the word backlash comes from… for it is entirely appropriate.

Charlie is a creature of habit. He typically poops twice on a walk. Consequently, I arm myself with three poop bags, just in case. But what use is a poop bag when you are presented with steaming lava shooting from his nether regions onto the pavement?? A bag takes ten minutes to pry open (a challenge worthy of Mensa), never mind getting it rolled back in time to attempt to catch the golden Pacific before it splatters onto the paving. I died inside as an elderly couple crossed the road to avoid me and the demon canine, whose poor face was displaying as much pain as mine.

I took one mournful look at the pebble-dashed pavement and scouted around for inspiration. The churchyard across the road housed a bush with large, broad leaves – my best chance of scraping up the mess, I felt, and so I dragged a reluctant Charlie across the road to pick several potential shovels.

He was not impressed when we crossed back to the scene of the crime. It was clearly a site of trauma for him, and he wanted to get as far away as possible. With the all muster of a martyr, I wrestled a poop bag and a strong, yanking dog in one hand, while the other hand utilised the greenery to spread and scoop. It wasn’t pretty. It did not go well. After a minute or so I had a poop bag filled with befouled foliage, and just as much of it under my nails.

I conceded defeat. I used mud and debris from the side of the road to cover the remaining evidence, and scarpered. I reasoned that I’d done far more than others would have in the circumstances, that I had suffered enough, and that no one would begrudge me leaving what I did behind.

Wrong. Fate had other ideas. The problem with always taking one too many poop bags out with you, is that the extra usually gets left in a pocket for a prolonged period of time. It may even do a couple of rounds in the washing machine. Said poop bag was now swinging in my hand and was, unbeknownst to me, partially disintegrated. Half-way home I discovered I had Jackson Pollock-ed myself in doggie diarrhea. When I got home, I stripped (very carefully) and graciously handed the clothes directly to my mother to deal with. Backlash.