Another Monday, the hours stretching out before me, ready to be filled with housework, weed pulling and, as an upstanding responsible pet owner, many animal-related tasks, and I’m ready. This includes, of course, picking up of the backyard dog poop – it’s a job nobody wants so naturally it’s mine. Actually, my husband will do it, but his method involves tossing it over the chain-link fence which simply means the smell has to work a little harder to reach us or our guests in the backyard, and trust me, there’s no harder working smell in the world. I can’t really fault him though because when he asks me why the top of my truck is still dirty after I’ve washed it, I explain that I couldn’t reach it although we own no less than 4 ladders, all easily accessible by me. Pretty soon I will look outside and he’ll be on a ladder washing the top for me. After 30 years together, we just take up where the other leaves off, no questions asked, all excuses accepted.
I decide to tackle the poop first since it’s the suckiest job and will only get worse as the day gets warmer. Around this house there is no task that cannot be made harder with the assistance and attendance of an assortment of dogs and I have eight experts. Want to check the pool skimmers to save the flailing grass snake or frog? Don’t expect to be able to see anything in the skimmer because of the 5 or 6 muzzles inserted into the skimmer hole the minute you open the cover and then once you do get the creature out of the skimmer, you must hold the poor beast above your head because evidently there is a bounty for water-bloated toads in this county based on the competitive circling and snarling going on as you try to walk. As usual, our smirking tabby cat watches this scene from his perch on the fence.
First I have to find the giant pooper scooper, known around here as Jaws. It is usually near the door, but it lives in several places, sometimes 
leaned against the fence or the side of the porch, but rest assured it’s never where you first look, why would it be? I could always put it back in the same place, but it’s placement is most often determined by how far out of my way I’m willing to carry the bag of poop in the other hand. Some days the gross factor of the bag outweighs efficiency and organization by a mile and I’d rather spend 20 minutes looking for it tomorrow than carry that bag one extra step today.
Okay, I’ve got my bag, I’ve doubled it for strength and after a few minutes I’ve located Jaws and reluctantly I’m off, with four furry helpers following along behind and we must hurry, the day is heating up. The helpers now run and hurl themselves off the porch as I go down the steps and walk towards the grass, they know what I’m doing - I do it every day, but you wouldn’t know it to watch them. If I had really smart dogs, like the dogs that track people or drugs, they could each locate a target and stand there until I come by and remove the offending item, but no, that doesn’t happen, it goes a little differently here. Apparently some of the helpers have decided I’ve entered the yard for their entertainment and they are running to and fro across the yard, picking up and offering me half of a tennis ball, a filthy scrap of a demolished dog bed, and a decapitated green rubber chicken. I decline their gifts so now they are gleefully tossing them in the air and inevitably stepping in one or two mounds (we have a Great Dane) of the very poop I need to pick up. This job just keeps on giving.
In spite of the helpers’ best efforts, I am soon done, the yard is clean, except for the places where the pile has been smashed into oblivion (or Bolivia if you are Mike Tyson) – I’ll just hope for rain or pretend I didn’t see those at all. I’ve checked under the fern, behind the banana tree, cleared it all and now I bask in the glory of responsible pet ownership – I have cleaned up after my animals, I am woman, hear me roar, although right now my roar sounds more like gagging. I hold the nasty encrusted bag with the tips of my fingers because it is windy today and the bag has not c
ooperated and is almost as disgusting on the outside as on the inside – almost. Now all the dogs have wandered outside and are fascinated by the bag and its contents so once again, with great disgust this time, I must raise something above my head to prevent carnage and destruction because I am NOT going to pick up that poop a second time. As I make my way to the gate that leads to the garbage can outside the fence, they trail along behind me barking and whining as if I’m carrying a knapsack of filet mignon and they are starving dingos. I try to be thoughtful of others so I do my best to prevent the accidental asphyxiation of the garbage workers when they open our can by sealing the bag up in another bag and hoping the truck is in front of another house when the garbage grinder pops that happy package.
My job complete, I walk back to the house, the cat is at my heels, sly and determined to rush the door and slip inside – the same cat that goes in and out whenever he wants. This dramatic performance is for my benefit, to remind me of my inferiority in the light of his brilliance; I roll my eyes and go in behind him. After washing my hands twice, I hold the air freshener under my nose hoping to kill any remaining molecules of dog poop, and as I inhale deeply I am filled with the scent of a lilac garden, but unfortunately it’s covered with dog poop. I give up.
I leave the bathroom and let the dogs inside and they gather around me, licking my legs, tails wagging, so grateful I cleaned up their yard, so happy to have such a good momma, or it’s possible they just want treats. I pat each head, scratch each chin and then I notice, one is missing, the Dane. Oh no, surely not, but yes, I look out through the glass door and here he comes, jogging a little, tail wagging, making his way from the furthest corner of the yard, looking a little lighter. I groan inwardly and sigh and let him in.
Somewhere deep in the laundry room I hear a cat laughing.
May 2012
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