Tag Archives: Poop

Our Dogs Kind of Love Uncooked Brown Basmati Rice

20 May

Warning: This post contains profanity and several references to feces. If you’re offended by this type of thing, you might want to skip this one.

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I’m carefully crafting a blog post about how I literally almost crapped my pants on the evening of Wednesday, May 7 at approximately 8:30 pm.

Often people exaggerate and use the phrase “I almost crapped my pants” casually, like “This big, hairy spider came out of nowhere and was, like, right by my face; I almost crapped my pants!” This person doesn’t really mean that they actually ALMOST SHIT THEIR PANTS. I’m almost certain of this.

But once in awhile it’s real. Because I almost shit my pants thirteen days ago–FOR REAL! So check back every couple of days or, better yet, subscribe to this blog because you seriously don’t want to miss it. Now, for more poop talk . . . .

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I wasn’t going to write today, but the dogs got into the pantry yesterday afternoon and helped themselves to a six dollar, 16 ounce bag of organic basmati brown rice, ripped it open and scattered it about the front room. (It was my fault; I left the door open.)

When I discovered the mess at around 2 pm, it was impossible to know how much they had eaten, if any. I mean, it’s uncooked rice. Eww. For humans, eating uncooked rice is not much fun. I can think of a 150 things I’d rather eat. But dogs? Who fucking knows. Dogs are crazy.

The mess our dogs made

riceCouch2

This morning while walking them, Dexter stopped and assumed his pooping stance while I jabbed my hand into a black shit-bag (because I pick up after our dogs unlike most people in this neighborhood) and waited. And waited. His eyes bugged. He strained. Nothing came out. The other two dogs were like What’s your deal? Come one, let’s get going! We ain’t got all fucking day.

Finally, after much effort, he pinched off this amazing little rice roll that put an end to me wondering if this particular dog had eaten any brown basmati rice. He definitely had. The rest of the way home, I fretted about all that rice sitting in their guts soaking up water, wreaking havoc and wondered what all this meant for our future walks. Alas, I predict much standing around staring at dog ass today and writing more about rice rolls tomorrow.

(I didn’t snap a photo of the rice roll. If I had known it was coming, I probably would have. But since I was standing there with a ready poop bag instead of a camera, I had it scooped up before I could think about it. Too bad for you because it was pretty awesome, though still gross, because, well, it’s dog shit.)

Since this is a shit-centered blog post, I’m sitting here trying to think of another incident I can talk about, but I can’t think of anything significant. I mean, I walk the dogs 3 to 5 times a day, so I see a shit-ton of dog poop. “Shit-ton” is a word that means “a lot” if you’re unfamiliar. I pick up so much dog poop, such a shit-ton, that we buy pet waste bags in bulk, 700 at a time, like the people who have pet waste removal companies.

Okay. I agree. Enough shit for today.

 

I’m No Gandhi, But Come On People

8 Oct

“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

That quote is often attributed to Gandhi. Maybe he didn’t say it. Either way, it’s permanently inked into my arm. This morning I realized that my daily dog walks in a nearby empty lot is a perfect example of how I try to “be the change.” This patch of grass is surrounded by condos on two sides, apartments on the third side, and some houses on the fourth.

This seemingly unclaimed rectangle of land is a dog shit minefield. Let’s pretend for a second that a dog’s booty-cake is an actual live landmine. If I blindfold four people and force them to cross this treacherous landscape, three will be blown to bits. That’s why I don’t step a single toe in there after dark.

I’m the only one who picks up shit here. So why do I bother when everyone else has apparently gotten together and decided it’d be awesome to see how much poop can pile up in one place? Well, because it starts with me; I want to “be the change” I wish to see in the dog shit minefield. And I know fellow dog walkers see me walking around with my little black, compostable poop bags. I wonder if they laugh. I wonder if they try to imagine themselves putting their fingers on turds with only thin plastic between.

Still, this isn’t the worst case of dog shit negligence I witness. I’ve hopped over gigantic piles of shit on sidewalks in downtown Edwardsville. Near restaurants! I don’t want to want to stoop to using an overused txt-speak expression, but OMG!

And also, AYFKM? (I thought I made this up, but Google set me straight. If you’re over 23, you may not know that AYFKM means “Are you fu*!ing kidding me?”) And that’s exactly what blitzes through my brain when I see dog turds on a busy sidewalk.

I’ve also jogged around piles of shit on the bike/running trails. Be the change you want to see in the world if you want that change to be worldwide disregard for human decency. How’s that for a inspiring tattoo? Or maybe: Be the ginormous pile of shit you wish to see in the world on the sidewalk. Words to live by.

Back to the field. It’s a perfect place for kids to congregate to play baseball or football or even to just hang out, like a small public park. I’m sure kids attempted this back in the 1980s.

“Okay, Timmy and Tommy, you’re on my team. Harry, did you bring–what the hell’s that smell? Billy, did you shit your pants again or did–Holy hell, I just stepped in a pile of dog shit.”

“Ah man, so did I.”

“Me too!”

“Dammit, so did I!”

“Let’s get out of here!”

My Sister Went to Vegas and All I Got Was a PooPen

20 Jul

Ah, but her gift was more than the physical item; she presented on a platter an excuse to write about two of my passions: poop and pens. One I seem to unknowingly collect and stash in my various backpacks and messenger bags, the other shows up unexpected and unwanted in various places about the house from the ass of one of our two dogs. (Hint on which is which: I don’t stash turds in my bags.) Well, until now. And don’t ask to borrow my crappy pen. Get Your Own!

Of course I gave my PooPen a good sniff when we rescued it from it’s plastic and cardboard prison. From looking at the packaging, I expected the PooPen to smell like shit, but it smells like rubber. It feels like rubber too and doesn’t stick to my fingers like real poop. So … that’s good.

I guess the cartoon dude hates the smell of rubber because he’s crying and holding onto his gargantuan nose. Or maybe he’s crying because his cartoon hair looks like french fries.

I had barely lowered the PooPen from my average-sized snozzle when my daughter discovered real shit on the dining room floor. Daddy, someone pooped in here!

So I did what I always do when someone poops on the floor: I grabbed a camera and got all Ansel Adams on that shit.

Now it’s time for a game. With prizes! Look at the above photo. One of the three turds is actually a PooPen. (Hint: It’s not the turd that’s trying to be something it’s not, like some cool newly discovered animal that looks a little like a horse.)

(Last hint: It’s not the turd that wants to be a seahorse.)

Time’s up! Nope. Stop it. Too late. You lost. No prizes. Damn I thought it was an easy game. Here’s the one you should have picked:

Whoa, did this post just get all political? Am I insinuating that Mitt Romney’s head would make a good PooPen topper? Not at all. In fact, this is pretty much my view of our political system:

The Republicans and Democrats are just opposite ends of the same turd. But here’s where it gets really weird. I did a little Googling (“drone-prone world leaders writing with cool romney turd pens”) and found a single image: dolly-pawed President Obama penning a new diary entry.

7/20/12

Dear Diary,

Well, shit. Day 3 and still no Liquid Ass. Ordered it on freakin Wednesday. Out of stock? Would hope hahaprank would let me know. What a stupid name, hahaprank. Romney pen cool though. Smooth. Little smudgy. Smells like rubber. Why does rubber smell like rubber? Will have to look up. Need to work Batman shooting into campaign speech. Sensitive. Can’t stop thinking about liquid ass delay. No good rotten morning in Florida. Humid. Balls sweating like sob.

Do You Feel That Erosion?

20 Jun

On Father’s Day, my mad paternal skillz were rewarded with a clogged floor drain in the basement. An hour later, Ivan from Belarus arrived with the nastiest pair of gloves I’d ever seen. After snaking our hole, dislodging our muck, and taking $275, he gave me a 45 minute history lesson on Eastern Europe. I thought 15 minutes was fine–you know, hit the basics–but I’m terrible at producing body language that conveys “I’m bored!” Most people would cut through it and say “Hey man, it’s been interesting talking to you, Ivan.” Not me. My smiles and nods said “I can stay out here all night, dude.” Ivan feasted on my anti-assertiveness.

Ivan talked with a thick accent, so the 45 minutes felt longer. I kept leaning in like that would somehow help me understand him. I eventually drifted through him and all at once we noticed that we were standing with our backs together; it was so wierd.

Now that I think about it, he could have been talking about another topic entirely, like the intricacies of poop flowing through pipes. I do recall hearing something similiar to “feces,” and, at one point, he used a palm-down, flat hand to animate something moving at a fast pace. His hand whooshed from my right to my left with a subtle downward slant. Hmm.

I fixated on his fingernails as he gesticulated. A different plumber once told me that plumbers should never chew on their fingernails. It could have been part of a plumbing joke, but it seems a good policy anyway. Earlier, Ivan stuck his whole arm into our floor hole. He said something that I didn’t comprehend and then something that I did: Put you arm down there and feel that.

Huh?

I stood looking at him hoping the pause would communicate that I didn’t want to put part of my body in the dirty hole, but he said it again. He said something about this being “clean” water, separate from the “dirty” water. I thought “Wow, we are so not jiving on the definitions of clean and dirty.”

That hole was not clean. Dirty. Very dirty.

Still, as a responsible homeowner, I felt obligated, so I slid my arm down there and felt what I was supposed to feel: growth on the surface of the pipe. He said “I don’t know if it’s corrosion, or … erosion, or what, but that build-up is making your hole smaller than it should be.” Erosion? I doubt that. If I wasn’t so grossed out I would have chuckled.

I had two thoughts: something’s going to bite me or my hand’s going to get stuck. I pulled out safely, but my bicep had slimy, black shit on it; I wanted to run to the sink in the next room. I took one step and he started talking about the growth some more, so I stopped. I held my gross arm out away from me like I had Body Integrity Identity Disorder: a compulsion to sever a healthy limb from your own body. He could have been messing with me; I’m not sure, but–damn–he has to realize (doesn’t he?) that regular people aren’t used to getting icky sludge all over themselves.

I wouldn’t be shocked if he was laughing at me as I scrubbed my arms. I should have said “See this shit on my arm, that makes it not clean.” What are they teaching kids over there in Belarus anyway?

Back outside as the sun was setting on our conversation, he said something like “feces,” which could have been “species.” I thought we were talking about plumbing again, so I blurted out “I can’t believe I put my arm down that hole!” He looked at me like grasshoppers were climbing out of my nose. He said “Oh no, that water something something something. I would never tell you to put your arm into something something toilet paper and poopoo.” I felt like such a wuss.

Maybe he thinks every man has an inner plumber fighting to emerge, that we’re born attracted to funky smells and oily smudge marks. Well, I’ll tell you, Ivan, I wasn’t born with a silver pipe wrench in my mouth. No sir. So next time a plumber urges me to join in for the dirty bits, I’m going to stand up for my right to stay clean.

When You’re on the Seat for Hours and It Doesn’t Smell like Flowers

24 Mar

What a crappy week. My youngest daughter missed four days of school. Not only was she sick, but she was lethargic, crabby, and bossy. I guess I should say that it was nice to spend all that extra time with her, but it wasn’t nice at all. It suuuuucked.

It began with a Tuesday morning vomit on her bedroom floor. The rest of the day was vomit-free, so she had me thinking she’d be back to school the next day. But on Wednesday she couldn’t keep anything down. It was horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE! Really, the first time I rinsed her barf-bucket was enough. I was like, whoa, I hope she doesn’t throw up anymore today.

Well, I rinsed her barf-bucket another fifteen times. I’m over the trauma of that day, but the real bummer is that the barf-bucket was formerly my favorite salad bowl. My wife gave it to her. We have two big mixing bowls, similar in size. She uses the other one for popcorn.

“Why didn’t you give her your bowl to barf in?” I asked.

“Yours is bigger,” she said.

It might–I say might–be a teensy bit bigger.

Anyway, I’ll wash it hard today. That means I’ll really put some force into my washing maneuvers. But I think it will be impossible for me to throw vegetables into that bowl until the memories fade.

If that’s not enough bodily fluid-talk, I have to write something about my own recent issue: the Big D . . . diarrhea. Read on after the cartoon. If you dare.

I almost decided not to mention it, you know, to avoid embarrassment. I’m easily embarrassed y’know? So like if we were all sitting around a big table, I certainly wouldn’t stand up, get everyone’s attention (I pictured myself clinking a fork against a glass), and talk fifteen minutes straight about my diarrhea.

But I can’t see you and–for the most part–I don’t know you. So . . .

In the past I though of diarrhea as something temporary. Once or twice a year I would come out of the bathroom and think–or say–wow, I just had major diarrhea. Then we would joke about it. We would sing the diarrhea song. Ha Ha Ha. Then I would forget about it and everything would be back to normal.

Well, it’s all fun & games until your stool activity turns into some sick version of Groundhog Day. Seriously, my ass has never touched porcelain this much in any two-week period of my life. My hamstrings are like iron. My wrinkled right hand (wrinkled from washing, along with my left) is cramped into a deformed wiping position. You should see me typing this. It’s just sad.

Now, if someone laughs I say “Hey! People die from diarrhea every day y’know?”

But I don’t live in the Congo. It’s my fault I haven’t visited the CVS diarrhea aisle. It’s my fault I haven’t seen a doctor. But it’s something that has always worked itself out–you know, a ONE-TIME thing. Jeez!

Yeah, I’m pissed at my body.

It’s time I go on the offensive up in here. It’s time to fight back.

And I’m going to win dammit!

Who’s with me?

Anyone?

Let Squatting Dogs Lie

1 Dec

I’ll get to squatting dogs in a moment.

While walking Dexter this morning, I was struck by the beauty of existence. The whole world was sparkling with–okay, no, not really; nothing, in fact, was beautiful this morning. The truth is, I overslept by ten minutes. I know, ten minutes is nothing, but this week I’m working on this new morning routine that has me sleeping all the way to 6:40. That’s late for me when you consider the past few years where I’ve rolled from bed as early as 4:00.

Getting up at 6:40 gives me enough time to:

  • Walk Dexter
  • Throw together two school lunches
  • Fix my breakfast
  • Eat some of my breakfast
  • Feed Chloe
  • Spend some time with Chloe before seeing her off to the bus stop at 7:25.

So when I stumbled downstairs at 6:50, I felt rushed and discombobulated. Chloe immediately tossed two math questions at me. I mumbled a couple of large numbers then asked Dexter if he could “please not pee on the rug.” Okay, fix the lunches. I reached into the cabinet to grab a couple lidded bowls for grapes and applesauce and found none.

Oh yeah, here’s why: the girls have “adopted” a stray kitten. They take those bowls outside every day to feed and water the little orange thing, but of course they never bring them back in. They stack up and blow around the yard.

Anyway, despite the rough start, we managed.

Okay, I’m finally getting to what I first wanted to write about this morning: dog poop, or how a dog poops.

Dexter’s a male dog. He hikes his leg up to pee. Once in while, though, he raises his leg, pees, and then manuevers his body into a modified poop-stance, but without lowering his pee leg to the ground. So he poops with one leg way up in the air. He does this all the time, three times a week probably. I love it. It entertains me every time.

Do I have the only weirdo male dog that turns a pee into a poo with raised leg? I mean, how many dogs are walking around, pooping, on this planet, millions? I can’t have the only dog who three-leg-poops.

Let me know if you have any insight to add to this pressing matter of national concern.

UPDATE 1 (The Next Day . . . Stray Cat)

The girls first discovered this cat under the wheelbarrow. I found FIVE empty bowls under there last night.

UPDATE 2 (The Next Day . . . More Dog Poo)

Sammie, our older dog, seems to enjoy when I take her along on walks with Dexter. This morning I walked both dogs and I was annoyed at Sammie, because she always divides her poop into to two acts. She poops; I pick it up and tie the poop baggie. But then she’ll walk 40 to 50 feet and poop again, but this time it will be a smaller amount, sometimes the size of a bouncy ball. Still I have to pick it up and tie the poop baggie. This poo and poo routine has become a habit with her.

On the other hand, Dexter doesn’t mess around with a second poop. It’s one and done. “Boom! I’m done,” he probably thinks. Since he’s still relatively new to us, after each poop I still say “Good boy! Good boy!”

The issue–I should go straight to a psychologist for this–is that I feel this slight nagging anger every time Sammie assumes the poop position on a walk. She’s been around for eight years. She deserves respect, right? But since she’s always been a “tie out” dog, I feel like I’m doing her a favor by walking her. And she has the nerve to “double poo” when she could easily do it all at once. Lately it’s been cold and it’s not easy tying those poop bags wearing gloves.

When Dexter squats to poop, I feel like I do when I’m watching a baseball game and my team gets a base hit. It’s not excitement, but a subtle, unspoken “Yes!” Part of that is he’s still a young dog learning that’s it not okay to poop in the house. When he poops I can turn around and go straight home if I want. It’s a tiny victory.

So am I a bad person? Is Sammie evil? Am I completely, bat-shit crazy?

You decide.

Evolution of a Poo-Bagger

26 Nov

Though we’ve been hearing the clitter clatter of gnarly dog toenails on our floors for 7 years now, it wasn’t until the recent arrival of our second dog, Dexter, that I have become a dog walker.

You know the dog walker, right? They’re the people standing in front of your house holding a plastic bag (they better have a poo bags!) with the thought bubble above their heads reading “Come on! Poop already!” in 972 point, arial, bold font.

Before Dexter (B.D.) I didn’t know how easy we have it. Sammie doesn’t use the toilet or anything like that, but she lets me know when she needs to foul up our back yard. She prances to a door, wags her tail, and stares at me.

I confirm the potty trip by saying any of these two or three times: 1) “Do you got to go potty?” I say it fast so it sounds like “gago potty?” 2) “Do you got to go outside?” Again, to her it sounds like “Gago side?” 3) “Do you got to go pee?” This I say like “Gapee?”

Until right now, I didn’t realize the poor grammar I use in my dog talk. I should say “Do you HAVE to go outside?” I guess it’s no big deal, though it does bug me a little bit. Weird.

Anyway, when she hears me jabbering like that she realizes that I’m going to let her outside, so she freaks out and shows some emotion. (Getting excited is rare for her and I always like to see it.) We have always used a tie-out with Sammie. It’s called the clip ‘n poo; I clip the chain–it’s not actually a chain,

it’s red–onto her harness, open the door, and out she goes. The other end is clipped to the railing.

She knows what to do and she does it. Boom, boom. Poo, pee. Done, just like that. It’s awesome.

But Dexter–God, what a pain–is always freaking out and wagging his tail. That’s the first problem. The second is that with him it’s not “clip ‘n poo” it’s “clip ‘n do nothin’.” When the weather’s nice he can spend 2 hours on the “chain,” where, at first, I was always confident he did his “business.” But then he would come in and immediately poop on the floor. Third problem: he doesn’t poop just anywhere. The whole house has hardwood floors, except for one room. If he doesn’t poop in the carpeted room, he poops on one of the twelve rugs in the house.

So now I’m a dog walker.

At first I resisted. I explained the new “way” to the girls: “If you want to keep this mutt, you’re going to take him out to go potty.” I quickly realized that was a stupid idea. It’s much more work getting them to do something than doing the task my-damn-self. So I would “forget” to walk him in the evening and then say to Jennifer, right before going to bed (clearly not wearing my dog walking clothes) “Oh crap, Dexter needs walked.”

But the dog walking tension was building. I think this was said by someone a time or two: “Well, I’m exhausted, if you don’t walk him, he’s not getting walked.”

So I took on the job full-time and, slowly, began to notice the nice things about dog-walking. Fresh air. Exercise. Early morning stillness. No rug turds.

Ainsley likes to come along, so she experiences the benefits and we get to spend some extra quality time together. Each walk is a mini-adventure.

I also think it will help fight the winter blues. I’ll be spending more time outside, noticing cool things like squirrel tracks in the snow and–wait–are squirrels out in the winter? I’m sure there will be other cool, wintry things to see besides my own foggy breath.

The process of becoming a dog walker has reminded me to be more open to change, to look for the positives, to be open, flexible, and to remember the surprisingly powerful effects of something so basic as taking a neighborhood walk with my daughter.

Walk on people!