Day 7: How much poop could a poop scooper scoop

What would you guess takes up a significant amount of my time these days? Driving? Yes, but no. Drinking wine? Yes, but no. Facebook scrolling? Yes, but no. Sex? Do you even know me? Netflix and chill by myself with a glass of wine? Not in November because I'm doing this every night. Love you, Schitt's Creek. (That was a clue.) If you guessed poop-related activities, then DING DING DING, you win a ham sandwich. Poop is the answer. I spend a lot of time on poop these days.

You might ask why I spend so much time on poop. Let me tell you: Dogs poop a lot. Really a lot. I have 2 dogs and somehow they break the laws of physics by producing more poop than the volume of kibble they eat. I can clean my whole tiny yard one day and go out the next day to find anywhere from six to eight fresh poops. If I only clean my yard once a week on trash day, that's 42 to 56 poops to pick up. That's like 30 pounds of poop. From. Two. Dogs.


For all that work, a person needs the right tool. I thought I'd found the perfect poop collector when I only had one dog. Cleverly named the Doody Digger Pooper Scooper*, this sexy bad boy picks up the poop and deposits it straight into a bag strapped onto the other end. I was pretty happy with my purchase until I showed it to my son Drake.

Drake: Have you flipped poop into your face yet?

Me: No! Of course I haven't flipped poop into my face! Why would I do that?

Drake: If you haven't yet, you will. It's designed to flip poop into your face. (His superpower is seeing the potential in all situations.)

Me: I'm not going to flip poop in my own face. You're just trying to make me feel like shit about my wonderful new poop scooper. You're jealous of my Doody Digger.

Drake [patiently]: Mom. Look at how it's designed. You scoop the poop up with that big spoon and then you swing it up into the air so gravity will force it down the tube into the bag. You fling it toward. Your. Face. You're going to hit yourself in the face with dog poop. It's inevitable.

Me: Damn it, Drake. Now that you said that you know I will throw dog poop in my own face! It will be all your fault.

Drake: Don't say I didn't warn you. Try to get a video if you can.

Me: Shut up. I'll never tell you if it happens. Never. My lips are sealed!

Drake. That's probably a good plan. Because poop. In your face. Wait for it.


Me: Shut up. You don't know everything.

I know what you're thinking and I'm not telling. OK, I will admit to a couple of close calls. Not only that, the Doody Digger can't handle anything close to 42 poops. I'd have to change the bag at least three times. Too much work. I use a Four Paws Wire Rake Scooper for Grass. It works all right. Nothing can make scooping that much poop a pleasant job. My yard is basically just a dog toilet. I'm resigned.

But wait! That's not all the poop I scoop. I also scoop cat poop. And now that I have two cats, I scoop twice as much poop. And I have twice as much litter and twice as many litter boxes.

The quandary with litter boxes -- other than the obvious question of why we allow cats to do their dirty business in plastic bins in our homes in the first place -- is where to put the icky litter. I try to use reusable bags at the store whenever possible, so I don't have a large collection of plastic bags from stores these days. It seems ridiculous to buy plastic bags to put doo doo clumps in when I'm avoiding them otherwise. I finally invested $15 in this plastic collection bucket called a Litter Genie that holds about a week's worth of cat litter clumps. And then I found some biodegradable bags to go in it, so I felt better about myself and how I'm saving the planet. (If anybody thought OK, Boomer, go fuck yourself.)

Which just makes you wonder: How much poop goes into our landfills every year? I mean, if my four animals contribute 30 pounds a day (possibly a slight exaggeration), what are all the rest of you contributing? I know all of you have animals and they all shit, although probably not as much as mine do. Nevertheless, that's a lot of shit, Janet! I'd love to compost it, but so far I haven't found a viable solution that doesn't involve a giant hole in my yard and buckets of saw dust. And piles of rotting shit.

(Confession time. For years the houses on both side of me were empty and the yards completely overgrown with waist-high weeds. I would often fling the poop over which ever fence was closer. I figured if anybody tried to come over the fence from either of those yards, he'd have to go through a poop minefield first. Now I have neighbors in those houses so I keep my dog poop to myself. I digress.)

And one more thing. All of them hate a clean .... area. Within 30 seconds after I've cleaned up all the poop in the yard and taken the bag to the dumpster and locked up the garage, one or both of the dogs will give me a guilty look, spin in tight circles until the proper momentum is reached, and drop a soft steaming load on the grass. And I always yell, "What the fuck, dog! Why didn't you do that five minutes ago, you asshole? Do you think I enjoy picking up your poop? Work with me here, you overactive shit machine!" They don't care. They're not even sorry.

And then there's the cats. Same fucking thing! As soon as I scoop the litter and tie up the bag, at least one of them leaps into the clean litter and desecrates it right in front of me. Damn cats.

Oh, and let me decide to take a long, hot bath in my envy-inducing clawfoot tub. That's a sure-fire cat laxative right there. Of course I scoop the litter boxes, which are in the guest bath because there is no good place to put a cat toilet, before I even run the water to get rid of any potential unpleasant odors. Every. Single. Time. One or both of the cats will take a break from sitting and staring at me like they're watching a horror movie (see yesterday's post), sashay over to the litter box, and take a big stinky poop. And then scratch and scratch and scratch to cover that shit up, which only serves to remind me that cats are filthy and disgusting and insist on sleeping on the end of my bed.

As I write this Gandalph is giving his own butt a thorough tongue bath. Don't tell me animal mouths are cleaner than  .... well, anything. That's bullshit, which is one kind of shit I don't have to deal with.

I am not cut out for living with animals.

And as annoying as all of this is, it's nothing compared to what happens when I poop, but that's a post for another night. To be continued .....


* Nobody pays me to write this shit. I do it out of the goodness of my heart. You're welcome.

In which I won't be getting a cat: Day 23

This is the cat I won't be getting.
(Photo credit: stolen from Catster)

Elvira: What are you going to name the cat you get after I move out?
Me: I'm not going to get a cat.
Elvira: Yes, you will. You'll get a fancy Maine coon or something like that, and you'll name it some obnoxious name like Hemingway.
Me: I wouldn't get a Main coon. They probably shed too much. I've always loved the American shorthair. That's the only kind I would want .... not that I'm getting one. Also I'm not a big Papa Hemingway fan. I'd probably name it Atwood. Atwood is a good name for a cat. Or Margaret. Either one would work.
Elvira: Margaret is a great name for a cat. You should name the cat you will definitely get Margaret. Oh wait though! I know! I know! You can name it Margaret Catwood. It's perfect.
Me: Clever girl! That is the best name for my cat ever. Margaret Catwood it is. I'm not getting a cat, but if I were to get a cat, her name would absolutely be Margaret Catwood.

I do not intend to get a cat, sweet readers, but if I did, I would not do stupid shit like this to Margaret Catwood.



And I would not make jokes about grabbing her by the short hairs either. She would be dignified and I would respect that. And in return, she would make sure her hairs did not fall out on my furniture and clothes. Also she would scoop her own litter. And she would know in advance not to get on my counters. Is it becoming more clear why I should not get a cat?

Wordless Wednesday: Cats again: Day 21

Here, kitty, kitty: Day 20

Wednesday Caddams, my new muse. Look out, Dolores.

I've never been a cat person. I might be a dog person, but not in the way a lot of people are dog persons. I don't fawn over every dog I see. In fact, although I like dogs, I prefer not to touch them all that much; a couple of pats is enough for me usually. And I hate being licked, jumped on, or stared at when I'm eating. A combination of the three will probably ensure I won't be coming back. I'm kind of a bitch, but dogs get that. Half of them are bitches too.

In spite of my boundaries around dogs, I enjoy living with one. One dog who has to be a standard poodle. One dog who is intelligent, protective, stays off the furniture, and doesn't shed. And who doesn't do those those things I listed above -- the licking, etc. A dog who lives with me, not the other way around. Don't hate.

Cats are a different matter. I like them, and they often like me. In fact, it's usually the cats who don't like anybody else who like me. I guess my reputation as a bitch precedes me. I will pet cats, even the standoffish ones, if they come to me. I will even let them get on my lap, although I surreptitiously pick the hairs off. But I don't want one living in my house. Or so I thought.

I have a lot of reasons for not wanting a cat. Litter boxes. Hair. Jumping on counters. Their reputations for being untrainable. Toxoplasmosis. Irrational meowing. Getting on the furniture. Litter boxes.

And yet since the middle of August I've had two cats living in my house, and I find I don't mind them so much. In fact, most nights as I write into the wee hours, this little guy, Gandalf, is purring beside me, like he is now. 

And the other day, a rare day when I found time to write while the sun was up, Wednesday Caddams, my new muse, sat on my desk and inspired me with her stony silence. Later tonight, she'll probably hop up on my bed and sleep as far from me as possible. It suits us both. (Gandalf is not allowed to sleep with me, because he wants to snuggle and I don't snuggle, but he is allowed to take a nap with me sometimes.)

It's disconcerting to me that I like don't mind these cats. Maybe it's because scooping the litter is not my job. Maybe it's because they're not permanent residents. Maybe it's because they're pretty good cats and they rarely get up on the counters. I'm not sure why they aren't driving me crazy.

The thing that has me worried though is something I did yesterday. I sent my daughter Elvira, she who brought these cats into my house, a funny cat video.

People! I do not send funny cat videos! I do not post funny cat videos on my Facebook! I don't even hit like on funny cat videos! And yet I can't deny that I crossed a personal boundary and shared -- although only with Elvira -- a funny cat video. The conversation following defines why this frightens me.

Elvira: Oh my god.
Me: I couldn't stop watching it.
Elvira: I watched it three times.
Me: I laugh every time. Oh shit. I'm a person who laughs at cat videos now. Fuck me.
Elvira: LOL. Everyone does that. It's why the internet was invented.
Me: Yeah, to make us stupider.
Elvira: Funny cats distract from the fall of capitalism.
Me: Eat the rich.
Elvira: Word.

Later she sent me this:

I responded with a laughing cat GIF  because ... and this is the terrifying part .... that's exactly what Gandalf does when I'm taking a nap! Exactly. And I thought it was funny that he might do that if I D.I.E.

You know that people can go crazy from parasites that cats carry around with them, right? Go ahead. Click the link. I'll wait.

What is crazier than posting funny cat videos and sleeping with a cat on your hip? I'm afraid it's already too late for me. I've already shared one cat video in a private message. What's to stop me from sharing one on my Facebook page now? And then sharing more and more?

And then what's to stop me from sliding down that slippery slope and getting a feline companion of my own once these cats move out? That's how they get you! They plant an organism in your brain that makes you crazy and then you take care of them and think all their insane antics are simply adorable.

This is serious! The next step is one we're all familiar with: the crazy cat lady. Next thing I know I'll be putting dozens of cans of cat food on my porch for all the feral cats and raccoons and skunks and my house will smell like cat pee and I'll have cat hair all over my clothes and then I'll change my will and leave all my money to the cats ...... I could literally scream!

This is a disaster. I don't know what I'm going to do ..... Wait! Gandalf and Wednesday suggested I watch this. They said it would make me feel better. 



Aww. Such funny kitties. Maybe we have room for one more ....