Here at The Inn* we have many many flowers. And blades of grass.
And also dogs.
Two of them.
Pee’ing and pooping machines they are (the dawgs, not the flowers or grass (as far as we know)).
And, before we walk said dogs – or if we ever walk our flowers or blades – we bring them to the back yard and ask them to pee and/or poop, and then we head inside, pull out a ‘just in case’ bag, and we head out on our adventures.
If we need to pause for ‘business’, we pause in woodland areas, or areas clearly not someone’s yard or garden.
Because, you know, pee and poop is not considered polite company by lawns and gardens, but also – while the dogs might be appreciative of the pee-mail left behind by my dogs – when they are done ‘reading’, their moving of said message to the trash involves – you guessed it – peeing all over it.
Thus begins a viscous cycle that the poor homeowner and/or gardener needs to deal with. One dog leaves pee-mail, another comes, ‘trashes’ it, another comes and reads that pee-mail. Lots of stuff dies and, well, you get it.
So, years ago, JoHn and I were sitting in the vampire room* sipping our coffee by our windows facing the water.
Beautiful morning, early.
A woman is walking down the street, in the direction of The Inn, with her little dog.
She stops in front of our house – actually, in front of the room we are sitting in, sipping our coffee – sees us, smiles, and waves.
She takes a few steps into the yard, and lets her dog walk toward us (retractable leash) about twenty feet more. It was such a familiar type of action that we thought we might know her (but we didnt’). She then watches him stop, just under our open windows, squat… and POOP.
As he was posting up, John and I both vocalized things like… ‘uh!’ and ‘hey!’ but they were more akin to loud mumbles of surprise versus threats.
The woman kind of chuckled and walked toward us, pulling a bag from her pocket. She didn’t say, “Oh sorry!” or seem flustered at all.
She said… “Good morning”!
And guess what? That isn’t the only time that this has happened.
People stop, let their dogs onto the lawn or into the gardens to pee and poop all. the. time.
I’m not talking, ‘wHoops!’ and accident occurred!’ as they are trying to drag their dog away (we had a Fred… we get that). I’m talking, we are out on the porch or in one of the gardens or on the lawn, and someone walks by, the dog comes a few feet into the yard, and poops or pees. If it is poop, the person may not have a bag – and many who don’t will just keep walking without a care in the world. No ‘sorry!’ or request for a bag… no nothing!
What is that?
Sure, it’s irritating, but it’s also fascinating to me.
Once, a man was completely confused that I didn’t like that his dog had just pooped on the grass because the man did, after all, just pick it up. I told him I would make a deal with him. I was looking at the spot where the dog had pooped (easy to spot because… yuck!). I told the man that his dog could poop there, every day…. if the man would just take off his flip-flop and, right then, rub his foot in his dog’s poop spot.
He thought that was gross.
I told him yes it was and, since we go barefoot in our own yard, it is gross to us too.
He was shocked.
Never thought of that.
I have dogs.
I always think of that stuff!
Along with the fact that people take care of their lawns and gardens and maybe they don’t want them, you know, dead due to dog pee, or that their chosen fertilizer might not be super fresh and smelly and not even remotely dehydrated dog poop!
I know, I know. I’m ranting.
But, after years, and with so much work that has gone into the gardens, I’m kind of done.
My friend Anna suggested laying in wait with Marshal Dillon Dingle – who can poof himself up and lose it like no other when required (well, actually, even when not required). Anna advises bursting from the hydrangeas in a lunatic frenzy when another dog begins sniffing.
She is also my anti-dog pee/poop superhero, unabashedly screaming when any dog/human team stops on her lawn. She doesn’t have dogs and she has no tolerance at all for anyone else’s dog’s excrement on her property.
But she knows I am just not capable of screaming bloody murder at people when they walk by. And, also? I usually want to meet their dogs in the worst way.
So… it’s a quandary.
And I don’t have a shotgun… or an outside porch to hang out on, rocking threateningly with said weapon.
But then I thought… ‘Wait! I do have a weapon!’ – one I seem to wield quite well.
My pen… okay, my chalk… is my sword!
I hung this about a half hour ago…
Hey, they do say ‘write what you know’.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Thanks for readin’.
*Not really and Inn… once an inn. But the poor man who walked into our house last week didn’t read the ‘private residence’ script on our sign outside and he was so embarrassed. Our front screen door is now locked.
**The sunroom-ish room at the end of the house that – due to it’s reddish wood paneling – looks like a miniature version of a parlor that Bela Lugosi would feel quite cozy in when the sun goes down and the windows are black.
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