Tuesday, June 19, 2012

When Life Gives You Poo…

Duress reveals the innermost workings of a man. Lately, I’ve been waking up to a fresh pile of canine manure in a random spot of my yard. Everyday. Such an inherently hateful thing will set a thinking man’s wheels to grinding. I’ve thought things like, if I catch that crap factory traipsing over my lawn in the wee hours of the morning, why, I’m going to—! This is what Patrick F. McManus dubbed the “aborted curse,” or a variant thereof. I’ve also thought things like, maybe it’s time to pull the old paintball gun out of mothballs. But that would be cruel. Just, but cruel, and especially in this eggshell of a woman’s world we have inherited from the hippies.

No, I’m going to find the strongest mongrel repellant in the world and deploy it liberally around my property. What is it dogs hate most? I can think easily of what they love: trash, feces, rancid meat, grass (I have a lot of that), small children, bicycle tires, bits of rope… But what do they hate? And how can I rid myself of this fecal scourge?

It is an irritation. I’ve thought about whether or not the nightly deposit is being left by a stray or a legitimate dog. If it’s a legitimate dog, that means it has an owner. If there is an owner involved, one of two things is happening repeatedly:

  1. The legitimate dog escapes confinement every morning to drop poo bombs on my yard.
  2. The legitimate dog is out every morning with its owner, who allows it to drop poo bombs on my yard, thus providing his or her express endorsement of said canine mischief.

If case #2 is valid, I have options. I could stake out my own yard. When I catch the culprit and its scumbag master I then have even more options, two of which spring readily to mind. The first is that I could (I would already be wearing three pairs of rubber gloves, of course) sprint out to the steaming pile, pick it up, and chase the bastard down my street. But this would require me to outrun him or her, and even with the advantage of piss, vinegar, and adrenaline on my side, I’m still not that fast. The second option would be to stealthily follow the offender to his or her own domicile, whereupon I could volley poo after retributional poo upon his grass. But the human kind of poo is far more gross. Ten to one, really. If I think this through, it’s not a realistic option, but it’s fun to consider nevertheless. Awkward headlines notwithstanding (In other news, a Meridian man was arrested early this morning for taking a dump in someone’s yard…)

In the end though, I’ll probably just spend an outrageous amount of money buying dog repellent that doesn’t work in an effort to expunge someone else’s dog crap from my little corner of paradise. What was that about an ounce of prevention? Oh, well… I forget. Something about being worth it or something. I’m still angry about it, as I should be. I don’t own animals because I don’t enjoy picking up feces out of my yard. It’s pretty simple. And that some jackass is out there yucking it up thinking he has the best of both worlds—canine love and a clean yard—payback is going to be a bitch. A cast iron, Mongolian cluster of a BEE-OTCH. Because next time that walking crap factory sets foot in my yard, I’ll be there.

Yes sir. I’m going to set out a huge bowl of doggie snacks as bait, and then camp out next to it. Right on top of Rover’s preferred latrine area IN MY YARD. And when I hear little munchies going on at about two AM, I’m going trigger my industrial strength aerosol air horn right in Rover’s face. Granted, I may have quite a lot of cleanup to do immediately after that, but it will be worth it. Because that will be the last time for a long time, let me tell you.

Dogs who poo in my yard need to BEWARE OF OWNER, let me tell you. And it’s a life lesson: When life gives you poo, camp out and grab your air horn. Like duh.