Note to reader: This entry is about dog poop and as such, I’ve rated it PG-13. Upon second thought, however, it’s possible that such an entry would be enjoyed only by those under the age of 13. Read at your own discretion.
A preface:
My views towards dog waste is probably that of most Texans – it’s part of nature and as such will eventually find its own way back into the circle of life without human intervention. I feel confident that, in Texas at least, either a torrential downfall will wash it away or a drought will scorch and crack the earth, the dog poop falling through the crevices, most likely to the mantle layer. Or another dog will just eat it. The prospect of picking up fecal matter is strange, not to mention disgusting. I justify not picking it up with the following train of thought: ‘Poop is gross. This is especially true when it is warm and fresh from the animal. I’m not talking horses and cows here, who eat grass all day, but your modern-day spoiled dog who eats mashed potatoes, Skittles, and God knows what else. This is the kind of poop you stand over and gawk at thinking, ‘what the heck did he eat there?’. What would people rather – me leaving the poop there, or me picking up the poop and vomiting in its place, which I argue is a much messier clean-up process?’
Now I know that toting around little plastic bags filled with steaming handfuls of animal waste tied to your belt like ammunition is the norm. in such strange places as California, New York, and central Austin, but the furthest my family ever went to disposing of dog poop was piling it on a shovel and tossing it over the fence.
I hadn’t originally planned to devote a whole entry to this some-would-say-distateful matter, but as I am laying on the couch writing this, I see a woman outside with her dog. The dog’s a big Shepard, unleashed and having a good time running about. He stops briefly to relieve himself. The lady is a ways away from him, but takes note and comes scampering to the area armed with a little black baggie. But there’s a problem – the grass is long and she cannot find anything. She circles a good five foot by five foot section. Nothing. She calls across the way for backup and another woman runs to join in on the search for the missing fecal matter. I’m reminded of the ‘Where’s Waldo’ books that I enjoyed as a child, hunched over, scanning methodically for that skinny little man with the glasses and his red-and-white-striped shirt. The two women begin to argue and I imagine what they are saying:
“Are you sure it was here?”
“Of course I’m sure! I just saw him. He squatted RIGHT HERE.”
“Well maybe he just peed, did you ever think of that?”
“My Hugo doesn’t pee squatting like a little girl. He finds a tree and lifts his leg proud and tall. I know my Hugo and he just wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, my little Humphrey sometimes peed like that. I mean, not all the time, but sometimes he would.”
“Your little Humphrey was also the size of a chinchilla and the entire contents of his bladder could fit in your cupped hands. No wonder he lost an ear when Robert didn’t notice he put him in the washing machine with the rest of the laundry…”
“TINA! That’s just not fair!”
Their conversation goes on like this in my head for a while, but then I realize there’s a story to relate here about the Fischer family’s own two dogs, Ola and Schultze. As you can imagine by now, while walking the dogs around I usually pretend that their waste is a by-product of the dogs of some other irresponsible Auslaender. Normally this works – it’s as if Ola and Schultze know that when they’re walking with me there’s no time for messing around. The old squat and run. Nine out of ten times we have no problems with this method, but last week the dreaded one in ten reared its ugly head.
The day was like any other – it was cool, cloudy and relatively damp outside due to the rain from the night before. Frau Fischer had to work through the afternoon and wouldn’t have a chance to go out with the dogs, so I took it upon myself. Right next to the front door is a big bag full of little plastic bags whose sole purpose is to pick up and tote around the waste matter of the dogs. Usually I take one or two along to keep up appearances, but this time I didn’t bother – we were just going around the block to pee. Well, they were. I could wait a bit longer. Anyway, the dogs were doing an admirable job emptying the contents of their bladders when suddenly Schultze squats in that tell-all position. I scan the perimeters – there’s an old lady across the street. She’s bobbing along, probably going to the bakery to buy a nice loaf of bread. I don’t think twice that she’d be the type to stir up any trouble. But I should know better. After all, I’m in Germany and every single person over the age of thirty will take the chance whenever they can to tell you when you’re doing something wrong or even just not quite right. Suddenly she turns around – Schultze is in her direct line of view. We’re caught. ‘Maybe I can still save this,’ I think to myself. I stand in place with the dogs pretending to admire the view of the sidewalks and apartment complex, totally oblivious to the heaping pile of steaming dog waste gently indenting the wet grass. I calculate to myself how long I could reasonably stand here, admiring the non-existent landscapes. Mid-thought, the lady yells something. I pretend not to hear her. At this point I actually contemplate running. Though Schultze would relish the speed and adventure of the whole situation, Ola has a tendency to waddle a couple of meters and then totally collapse in an obstinate display of disapproval. Under normal circumstances I could outrun this woman doing a brisk walk, but I didn’t want to take my chances hurrying along with one grossly overweight Cairn Terrier dragging behind me. That’s admitting my guilt from the get-go. So I continue to stand my ground as she makes her way towards my end of the sidewalk. I brace myself for the inevitable confrontation.
The lecture begins: She tells me very sternly (in German remember) to pick up after my dog. I tell her I am very sorry, but I am a foreigner and simply have no idea what she’s saying in the best unconjugated, mispronounced German I could muster. She asks where I’m from and I tell her Mexico, given the off-chance that she could speak some English. And let’s face it, the American image needs all the help it can get here in Germany. The woman then proceeds to put on an elaborate Charades production, bending over, pawing at the air directly above the now cooled-off fecal matter, and putting the imaginary contents of her cupped hand in the canvas bag which she was carrying. I proceed to look at her, wide-eyed, much the way the dogs were now staring at me. I then shake my head up and down, relenting to her icy stare. I get it, lady, okay, I’m going to go now. But it just wasn’t that easy. She begins to follow me. Well my friend, two can play at this game. I wander around the inner-workings of the complex, sitting on a bench here, a tree stump there. But this lady’s on a mission, head-strong, she deflects all of my feeble attempts to lead her astray. That’s when I realize – she knows where I live. She hobbled straight to Frau Fischer’s door and rings. No answer. She rings again. Nothing. Frau Fischer’s still at work. The lady leaves, glaring again at me and the recently-relieved dogs. ‘Well,’ I thought to myself, ‘the gig’s up. You’re probably in trouble.’ I hadn’t felt this way since high school days when Mrs. Austin the Algebra teacher would call home weekly to inform my mother of my most recent mathematical failings. The dogs and I go inside and think about what we’ve done. More precisely, I think about what they’ve done and my own decision to take no action in order to clean it up.
Later that evening, I notice something on the leashes. I go up for a closer inspection and see little black plastic bags tied up and down the length of them, like bows on a little girl’s braids. Frau Fischer saw me looking at them and laughed to herself. Then she asked me if I wanted some cake and we sat down to watch television together.
For those that made it this far, I’m pleased to say I’ve posted pictures on my Google site (http://picasaweb.google.com/racheldubya). You’ll probably be happy to know that they have nothing to do with this entry.
