Dogs are the only animal that can become a true family member. Sometimes better than that, considering my family.
They provide practice in caring for a living being before having a child. They provide valuable lessons to children on how to deal with loss on their passing. I wholeheartedly loved dogs until I stepped on a fresh batch of dog poop. Thrice, in the past four months.
Never in my 11 years of living in New Zealand have I stepped on dog poop, but since I have moved to the Coast it has happened to me three times. Every time it is a great shock to my system. The encounter is never recognised immediately. The stench hits me when I have already walked around my house with the freedom of a toddler. Then the painstaking process of tracing my steps backwards within the house begins. Three hours in, I am elbow deep in detergent. Phew, all done. Damn it, the stench is still there! Is it my paranoia, or are poop particles embedded in the DNA of the carpet? It doesn’t matter. My anxiety compels me to call in the carpet cleaners and throw away my shoes. I am left $300 out of pocket, thrice!
This could all be avoided if these dog owners had responsibly picked up the foul scented refuse immediately after the completion of the relieving process. You know who you are. My research has found that there is a certain bag you can carry with you to use as a glove and pick “it” up and then dispose of “it” at your convenience.
I have heard people referring to themselves as “Mummy” or “Daddy” while talking to their dogs. Well, “Daddy”, pick up your child’s poop. You wouldn’t allow your human child to take a dump in front of a neighbour’s house.
So, do I still love dogs? Maybe. Do I love their owners? Show me a full dog poop bag and I will consider it.
PS – I really need to get my eyesight checked because: “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, I must be going blind!”