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.

My new guy(s)

It's Feminism Friday! And I have a witty, bitter-like-strong-Ethiopian-coffee post running on the hamster wheel in my head. It's been there all week. But speaking of the week, it's been a rough one. Some good things, sure. A friend took me out to dinner. Drake and Montana showed up for an unexpected weekend visit tonight. A friend bailed me out and took me to pick up my van at the shop after I'd decided I'd have to take a cab. I made two pots of soup (more on soup in a later post). 

It's also been a rough week. People in my life are tense. We got our first light snow of what promises to be a long season. One of my favorite students was whisked back to Canada by her family with little notice, and won't be coming back. Another was taken out to homeschool with one of those awful online charter schools, and although I homeschooled my kids for 12 years and I fully support it, I don't think it's best for her. Losing two of my best writers in one week sucks. I'm going to miss both of them. My van needed some repairs, and it was a dramatic pain in the ass. Other drama happened with other people and situations, and then some more drama. Most of it was simply a matter of intolerance or people not minding their own damn business.

Speaking of times when I wish I could mind my own business, I can't get those greasy photos of Kim what's-her-name out of my head, and I don't understand why so many words are wasted on her. She's got a big ass. So what. We have to look at photos of it all covered in oily oil? What has she ever done to make her ass so important?

The bottom line is that I don't want to dive into a rant about a ridiculous comment a ridiculous man left here earlier this week. because I've had enough unpleasantness for one week. I will though, and soon. Just not tonight.

Tonight I'm probably going to jinx myself, but I'm going to introduce you to the little guy who I think will be my new canine companion. I wrote about my dog dilemma a few months ago, and I've continued to struggle with it.  I won't rehash that because the pros and cons remain the same.

But .... I hate to admit this .... I've been feeling lonely lately. I'm not sure why, because it's not really like me. I'm too busy to feel lonely, or bored for that matter. But I have been. I've even left a couple of social occasions because I felt lonely in a crowd of people. Once I apparently really hurt and pissed off someone I consider a good friend, and the other time I'd paid to be there but I left before dinner. I doubt anybody noticed, but the idea of having someone to come home to -- even a non-human someone -- seemed like a good solution to the problem.

So I got serious about the search for a new standard poodle (spoo). I dug through lots of ads for really expensive, pedigreed, fancy pups. I sent out a few emails to the ones that were in my price range within 3 hours distance. And I'm pretty sure I've found him.

His name is Henry now, but I'm going to call him Doc. I don't know why. I've just had that name in my head for my next dog for a long time. He'll be ready to come and live with me Thanksgiving weekend. He lives 3 hours away, but Montana and Drake live close to him, so they'll probably go introduce themselves sooner.

Here's another photo of him with his sire. How fucking adorable is that?

I hope I'm not jumping the gun by sharing this so soon, but I'm excited. I'm ready for a new man to come into my life, even if he is a furry little guy who will only end up weighing about 65 pounds. It's time.

I've also decided to acquire a new boyfriend. Not one made of flesh and bone and corpuscles, but the one who lives in my imagination. The one who's more likely to become manifest in my life than any real man. I don't have a name for him yet, and I'm not even sure what he looks like. But he's there just hanging out with my Muse Dolores, waiting to become my imaginary lover.

More on both of my new guys in posts to come. I'll let you know which one pees on the floor first.

How much is that doggie in the window?

I lived with a dog most of my life until my standard poodle Pippi Longstockings died almost 3 1/2 years ago. She had been sick for a long time with bladder cancer, and in doggie diapers most of the last year of her life. Our vet wanted me to put her to sleep long before I was ready -- not for her comfort, but for my quality of life. Fuck that. We went through a lot together: raising 2 kids, a nasty divorce, an emotional move into the city, and one final Christmas. I took care of her until she really did need to go.

Everybody, including me, assumed I would get another poodle within weeks of Pippi's death, both for companionship and for protection in the cold, scary city. But I didn't. It was the first time in my life I didn't have to take care of anybody, and I enjoyed the freedom. I kept thinking I'd get another dog soon ... and then when I moved .... and then soon. I still haven't found another dog.

Every couple of months I look online for standard poodle puppies near me. I always find a couple of good possibilities. And then I don't follow through, for several reasons.

1. I can stay out as late as I want without worrying about finding a nasty mess somewhere in my house -- probably not on the tile floor. I can stay out all night. Or for days and nights. I can shut up my house and travel whenever I want. I've never had that kind of freedom before.

I kept my son Drake's dog Duke this past weekend. He can't be trusted with the run of the house, so I had to put him in the laundry room. I went to church, and then I went out to lunch with a friend. I had planned to go from there to a play, but I realized Duke had been shut up for almost 6 hours, so I came home. We went for a lovely walk, and I enjoyed his company, but I couldn't do what I had planned to do.

2. Poop. Poop is nasty. Poop wasn't quite as nasty when I had half an acre of yard, but my yard is small now. Did I mention Drake's dog Duke was here for 2 weekends in a row, and .... poop. Poop on the bricks by the compost. Poop on my lawn mower tires -- the tires I have to walk behind while I mow. Poop on my shoes. Poop. When Drake and Montana bring both dogs, they leave twice the poop. Ugh. Poop.

3. Standard poodles are expensive, somewhat rare, and I refuse to live with any other breed of dog. Also, I don't give one shit what anybody else thinks of my refusal to live with one of the many other breeds and mixes. I only live with standard poodles. I don't want to analyze or defend or even argue my choice. I only live with standard poodles and that's final.

4. I'll get 10 good years, maybe 12, and then my heart will break again. One reason I haven't done the deed is because Pippi will be a tough act to follow.

5. Back to #3, vet bills and grooming can get expensive. I can do neither myself.

Those are my reasons for not getting a new dog. They're pretty similar to my excuses for not dating.

My reasons for looking every couple of months are almost -- but not quite ... yet -- as compelling. 

1. I rarely go for long walks like I used to, because I don't have a dog to take me. I feel safer with a dog, even though Duke and I were attacked a couple of weeks ago by another dog. I still feel more secure when I walk with a dog. And I enjoy the companionship. On the other hand, I can't take a dog cycling with me, so I'd have to consider whether to walk or ride. Gray area.

2. I suppose I feel more secure with a dog in the house. A loud bark will often scare away a would-be intruder. Then again, I don't often feel insecure here in my house anyway.

3. Somebody to talk to. I'm not going to explain that. I don't talk baby talk though, and I don't refer to my dog as my child.

4. Somebody to clean up spilled food. I've got a 2 1/2-year-old granddaughter. This task is not to be taken lightly.

I guess that's it. I see myself as a dog person, but I'm a dog person without a dog. An uncommitted dog person. I may be in the same situation with a dog as Elvira says I am with men: I expect one to fall out of the sky into my lap and that's the only way I'll have any interaction with one.

So far, the sky has rained neither men nor standard poodles.What a pity, because I really can't make a decision. Although not making a decision is at the same time making one, isn't it?

Anybody got a young black male standard poodle they want to unload? Anybody? Bueller?