Playing Your Part
Let’s give a cheer for the people who clean up after their dogs. I doubt it will match the fervour with which we curse those who do not. I’ve been spending a lot of time lately in a local park, and I can tell you that there is more to scooping the poop than you might expect.
In earlier times, before the risks associated with dog mess were widely known, the hazards were everywhere. All aspiring footballers had to accept that the ball that rolled across public pitches might well be gathering more than grass before it was chipped invitingly by a team-mate for you to head. Frankly, I am amazed that I escaped the various parasitic illnesses that can be transmitted from pet excrement to humans since I spent more than a decade of my life in intensive daily contact with a football. The vigilance of my parents on the walk to school (and yes, it was usually a walk rather than a drive in those distant times) was prompted as much by the obstacles left by early morning dog walkers as by the dangers that traffic posed to easily distracted youngsters. Dog-shit was one of the surest ways you learned just how deep the tread-lines on the soles of your shoes were. One squelchy momentary step resulted in a protracted period of cleaning; usually outside, whatever the weather.
This lasting memory led me to use this detail as a none too subtle way of introducing a villainous sociopath in a crime novel. He kept a large dog and fed it a special diet. He also trained it so that each night he could take it on a neighbourhood ramble depositing large and loose piles at the entrances to three nearby primary schools. The ensuing mayhem pleased him.
The task of cleaning up after your dog is both environmentally challenging and for some, an opportunity for dramatic performance. First and foremost, as we edge all too slowly into a world of reduced plastic use, this kind of clean up seems destined for the later stages of the revolution. I am not expert enough to spot bio-degradable plastic at a glance but my suspicion is that many dog-owners are using the cheapest bag they can find, and once it has acquired its final excremental contents, its chances of being recycled are slim. The more sensitive or clinical dog-owners not only have a collection of plastic bags for the sometimes multiple stops that Rover may require; they have plastic gloves as well.
Skilled owners have got their choreography perfected since the ballet of the poop-scoop frequently revolves around the key detail that the leash must remain held, thus requiring an intricate one-handed operation. From my observations, women seem more adept than men, and even though some of the noises emitted by elderly dog-walkers make it clear that the stooping action involved is probably the only one undertaken that day, they nonetheless generally move along the well-laid tracks of daily practice. Younger owners seem more likely to converse with their pets during the procedure and sometimes the exchanges are surprisingly affectionate, although more often they are variations on the theme of “did you have to do that? there? now? Again!”
Today, I witnessed a male performance. It featured a small dog (whose hybrid global ancestry drew on the dachshunds of Germany and the chihuahuas of central America), and his very large owner whose considerable height was being increasingly challenged by his ample circumference. The more efficient women whom I had observed on other days were able to read the gait of their dog’s walk so that the bag, gloves and other equipment were all ready, literally before the shit hit the floor. In contrast, today’s Goliath gave his dog both time and space. Fortunately, the dog took the minimum of each dimension: a brief squat in a single spot.
The result was proportionate. From his towering height, the man evaluated the outcome from several angles and having concluded that it was what it was, he reached into his back pocket and produced a bag. With a gesture worthy of an orchestral conductor, he shook the empty bag, and impressed by the virtuosity of his inversion of the bag as it enclosed his hand, he bent to the business and swept the turd inside. The motion of his arm was like a bear’s paw while salmon fishing. Then, with a final flourish, he allowed the bag to spin before deftly tying a single knot — this operation was undertaken at head height with the kind of focused intensity I associate with TV magicians. One further step remained, and after three or four commanding strides, the man had reached what he judged to be the target range and threw the bag — baseball style — into the bin on the far side of the path. His face was wreathed with smiles and if I concentrated on the interior soundscape, I could almost sense the applause inside his head.
There may be people out there who still remember the phrase: “it’s a guy thing.” Initially, it was used as sufficient explanation for male conduct whenever women or common-sense queried it. Recently, its tone has become more clearly defensive, as if the speaker concedes that the activity may not have a rational explanation, and equally that he wants you to know that he is not one of those guys. Watching this poop-scoop maestro, the phrase certainly crossed my mind, alongside another, frequently used comment: “the dogs are not the problem, it’s the owners.” I was still thankful that the man had cleaned up after his pet, but somehow his macho performance, made me think that there was a bigger mess out there, infectious and potentially harmful, and one that will take a lot more time to bag.
