| dewy decimal |
2003-09-20 - 5:25 a.m.
At around 5:30 pm everyday, my Dad takes our dog, Kola, on one of her twice-a-day walks. Sometimes when my dad is too busy, he'll ask me to walk her for him. Like today.
She'll lead me to the pockets of smell where she snuff-sorts other doggie smells, little messages left by other doggies on walks. Appraising the perfumed shorthanded accounts of Kibels n bits, impish Tomcats named Buddy, and the plates of suspicious automobiles, all sprayed thoughtfully at the cemented bases of mailboxes and the fringes of asphalt.
A leash in one hand and a plastic bag in the other, we drag through our neighborhood, nodding at the elders who are watering their lawns like clockwork, after the evening news, but before their sodium-free suppers. Fending off irregularity in scheduele. Fending off death.
I am a cunning motherfucker. Yes, I carry the plastic baggie for dog shit, but, no, I never clean that shit up. Hellz muh-fuckin no. I just bend down three feet from the shit stack and pull some grass out of the ground, make like I'm doing my dog owner duty. If I'm caught I'll pay the $100 fine. I don't care. I can't pick up dog shit cause I'll ralph. And if I'm lyin', I'm fryin'. Sure, the dog shit will be gone, but there's only gonna be a pool of vomit instead anyway. And who's gonna clean that up, I ask you. So I figure I'll just save my throat the discomfort of stomach acid, and I'll just leave that dog shit right where it is. Shit is biodegradable anyway and the plants love that stuff. They think it's just so fucking yum yum. Deal with it. And if you step on it, all the more good luck for you, right?
I have the weakest stomach in the world. Picking up dog shit is a Fear Factor Challenge for me. I'd do it for a million dollars...maybe. I'd do it if my life depended on it, definitely. I'd do it to hear you say you love me, and then I would do it forever.