The Biologicals

Petey is Sir Shits-a-Lot. He expels far more than he consumes. Far more each time than his own weight it seems; giving up in each void presumably a rotating selection of internal organs, which he then regenerates over night.

Sadie is a shitter as well – the big kind. The bear scat, cigar sampler, model rocket kind. The smell? Like that which I imagine to come from a newly opened sarcophagus, from the pit of buried bodies behind that infamously lase faire crematorium in the news, or simply, the Devil’s taint.

And now a little known fact: In the jungle outposts of condo-world dog walking and waste management is not just a matter of daily routine and state law. It is a matter of Association Policy. So, truth be told, if you are in a suburban track home or city domain you can let a certain amount of pooh-pooh say, transgress if you forgot a baggy, lost it in the night, are smoking and on your cell phone and are trying to drink your fifth bottle of Poland Spring for the day. It happens. And chances are SWAT is not going to descend from the trees to nab you. The feds aren’t going to pinch you and even the nosiest of passersby will more than likely only tisk-tisk you. I can only assume this is true as I constantly see enormous molten piles of soft-serve leavings and rarely see errant dog owners impaled on spits when I venture to these places. In condo-ritaville though there are spies. Agent provocateurs. Mata Haris. People whose sole purpose on earth is to gather intel on the mean weight of uncollected pet waste and mete out harsh judgement and penalties on those responsible as if the offending corpus-doo-doo was dispensed among their dinnerware or sleeping infants. Fair enough. I am an advocate of responsible pet ownership, which includes righteous choad collection and leash law adherence. What does this mean then? It means that when it is night, and freezing, and I am tired, and cold, and tipsy and/or near naked I will be trying to find that dog crap by smell (dramatic musical hit). This is gross to be sure. But no matter how good a line I think I have on the prize I always seem to lose it. I will stand where I am certain the deposit was made and nothing. It will have disappeared like the formula for New Coke. So there you can behold me tethered to a panting, smiley face Chihuahua, bent over in my boxers and a scarf in February sniffing out my companion’s post-digestibles. Ask around the circle. Folks we have some new members today. Hi, my name is Human and I root out my dog’s crap by sense of smell. Hi, Human.