This morning Taylor drove me to work so that he could spend the day with the car. It was pouring out (Taylor declared it a proud ‘EFF YOU’ to 2009) and so we dodged across the boggy puddles in the lawn as quickly as we could. Taylor had the car started before I sat down and slammed the door.
“I was going to tell you to be careful,” he said. “There’s a whole new pile of dog poop out there.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I moved a pair of mittens out of my way. My car collects coats, scarves and mittens like high shelves collect dust. “I should do a blog post about it.”
“That would be hard,” Taylor mumbled.
“What would be hard?”
“A blog post. All about dog poop. It would just be kind of…weird, don’t you think?” He shifted the car into reverse and we began ambling out of the parking lot.
“No, I don’t think it would be that hard. That’s how you tell a good writer, if they can make something that seems unfunny…funny.”
“Okay. I just don’t know how…it’s like, ‘Oh, our neighbors have lots of dogs and they poop everywhere. Ha ha ha.'”
“Oh. I’ll do it. I’m totally blogging this.”
We both fell silent as we started driving. In my head, I was plotting. Planning. There were multitudes of ways to make the whole thing funny. Taylor would see. They would ALL see. The situation itself was kind of funny.
See, we have a walkway that leads out to the parking lot, but it’s been long overgrown by some sort of giant villainous bush, with gently dangling branches that catch the water and smear it all over your clothes if you get too close. Usually we just avoid the walkway, at least that first portion, and tip toe through the patchy lawn. The only problem with this is that really, pretty much all of our neighbors have dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, bull dogs, old dogs, young dogs. Dogs dogs dogs, and all of these owners have some sort of primal aversion to picking up poop. Possibly they are all allergic to plastic bags, or maybe none of them have shoes with which to go outside. I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt, but the thesis here is that our yard is full of shit.
It’s like a minefield.
I don’t think either of us have stepped in anything yet, but it’s probably due to our hyper-vigilance. Anytime we go outside, it’s not, “Oh, lovely day,” or “Mymy, it smells like spring,” it’s just “WHERE IS THE POOP. SHOW ME THE POOP. THERE IS POOP SOMEWHERE.” which is really a less-than-pleasant way to start the morning.
At some point, one of us is going to step in something, and our legs will blow up in a dramatic mix between the Wicked Witch Of The West and a Michael Bay movie and we will roll on the grass screaming, “Oh, God, why? Why, sweet God? Why us?” and THEN, our neighbors will FINALLY feel bad enough to clean up when their dogs crap in a public area.
You know, really, the entire point of this post was to be able to make a single joke that I never got around to making, so here it goes. Are you ready? Because I’ve been thinking of this one since this morning, since the moment Taylor said that I couldn’t turn an unfortunate preponderance of dog shit into a valuable blog post. I’ve been working on this one. There have been rewrites.
Are you ready?
There. Everytime I dodge frantically across our backyard towards the parking lot, staring at my feet and nimbly picking my way over suspicious clumps of dirt, in my brain I am screaming, “THIS IS THE APOOPCALYPSE” and imagining each steaming pile of woe burning a hole into the ground from which lava spurts and covers the flaming houses while muscled black horses with solemn riders pound across the landscape with mountains of volcanic shit issuing from their behinds.
You’re welcome, The Internet, and have a happy new year.