We’ve been dog-sitting this week. I love dogs. I really do. When I was growing up we owned an Airedale terrier named Charlie. He was a character. He was stubborn. He really liked doing things his way. He listened when it suited him, and usually it didn’t … like the time I decided to don my roller skates and take him for a walk. He spyed a dog in the distance – at the very opposite end of the park – and forgot about me in all his excitement. He haulled me over hill and over dale, sidewalk and grass and gravel. I finally had to let go, otherwise I would have ended up looking like Wile E. Coyote with a lasso around a ACME rocket.
I love animals, all animals, but I’ve pretty much decided that we can never have a dog of our own … no matter how much the girls beg and plead.
This week has been an experience.
Alfie is a white little fellow, a schnauzer I think. He’s sweet. It’s clear that I’m the alpha dog in this family. He follows me faithfully. He listens. He rests quietly at my feet while I’m on the computer. He loves me unconditionally. When I scratch him behind the ears it’s I can tell by the look in his eyes that it’s The Best Thing That Has Ever Happened. Ever.
But I’ll tell you what:
I am done with bodily fluids. We had two kids who both went through a diaper-phase. I specifically remember the last diapers we ever bought, and the feeling of freedom I felt when that package was done. It was great not to have to have the diapers/zinc/wipes on hand 24/7. (Wiping and washing didn’t quite end when the diapers left the scene, but let’s just say that I’m not handling nearly as much as I used to.)
Small dog = small poop. This is good. I thought I could live with that. And I was surprised the girls wanted to help in this area. I think it had to do with their desire to show “responsibility.” The first time we took Alfie for a walk Sarah eagerly volunteered to pick up after him. She did the use-the-bag-as-a-glove thing, and as she picked it up she gleefully observed: “the poo is HOT mummy!”
I have made similar observations, albeit more quietly. You know what? I don’t find it nearly as thrilling.
Related to this, what are you supposed to do with the poop? Dog owners are supposed to flush solid waste down the toilet, right? So it’s treated and doesn’t end up in the landfill, right? But who wants to do that after it’s been smeared inside a steamy plastic bag? Correct me if I’m wrong, but there doesn’t appear to be a good system in place. The ideal poop picker-upper would look something like this:
Like salad tongs for poop, you know what I mean?
Alfie is also moderately barky. This holds especially true if there’s another dog within sniffing/trespass distance. He lets His Displeasure Be Known to All.
But then again, perhaps I could learn to overlook the pooping and the barking. I love it when he turns his brown eyes on me. It makes me feel so needed. And appreciated! Alfie never talks back. I never have to give him a time-out. I know he loves me with his whole doggy-heart. Perhaps this would make up for the poop scooping.
Any dog owners care to reflect?



