There’s a certain amount of bagged etiquette required when walking dogs these days.
Those of us who walk dogs soon discover the etiquette involved.
I hate it when people run out of their houses in their pajamas, chasing the errant dog walker down the street. So we hike around enjoying the birds and the fresh air with a handful of nasty-smelly bagged at our side.
It’s necessary. Your average tail wagger produces 0.63 pounds of poop a day — yes, somebody’s counting. That’s one small poop for man, one giant poop pile for mankind. At any one time, there are six tons of poop on the sidewalks of New York City. Tons.
I’m trying to be PC (poop correct) with my Lily, our mini doxie. I back it up with a pooper scooper and a mutt mitt and a poop bag, all evidence of ecological awareness. Still, Lil and I are not on the same planet regarding bodily wastes.
I’m certain that to her, it’s a gift. Harry, her boyfriend next door, every morning comes over and gifts a few choice piles on my drive. Lily enjoys his calling cards and reciprocates.
I yelled at Harry. He gave me that “you crazy, mon” look all dogs show when we question their instincts.
It’s getting testy out there. We have a city park nearby plastered with unfriendly signs: $150 fines if your dog dumps and you do not immediately remove all traces of it with your fingers.
Cats, squirrels, skunks and raccoons? Free pass.
Some cities, surprise, are turning this into a new revenue center. Their cops ticket all dog walkers not displaying an EPA-approved excrement collection receptacle, preferably loaded. Four years of college to be a poop-bag cop.
A hundred and fifty smackers. I’m sure our mayor’s drooling over poop-recognition cams that automatically send you the ticket in the mail. Guilty as discharged.
My vet says Lily’s bladder is the size of a golf ball. Still, instincts take over, and she marks her scent (tries to pee) on all lamp posts. It’s their fluid Facebook.
I explained Lil’s mechanics to a guy peed-off that she seemed to be watering his rhododendron every day. He didn’t buy it.
So I’m walking around with a bright orange newspaper bag, qualifying me as environmentally conscious. If I were the Al Gore of dog poop, I’d be picking up for other dogs, but I’m environmentally unconscious about that.
When we get back home, Lily examines every square inch of our lawn strip for messages left by her friends. “There’s Moca. And over here is Buddy. Looks like Moe had a big supper.”
I’m really glad Lil’s not like Shiloh, the world’s greatest beagle of my youth. He loved me so much, he peed on me when I came home from school. It was his welcome ritual. Shi was a pain in the butt, but cute!
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