Must Love Dogs

I picked up poo

in the backyard today.  It’s a

thankless job – no matter how

much gratitude you might receive.

There was one turd in particular

that gave me a whole lot of grief.  It

was one of the smallest members

of a perfect round, brown family

of shit – a real healthy bunch;

solid yet moist.  And the cracks

throughout were so symmetrical.

Everything about it was.  Da Vinci

would have been proud.

 

On the first scoop

I nearly took them all, only two

remained.  The first was very tiny,

definitely the smallest of them all,

and the darkest, too; the tail end

of the monster, no doubt.  But

no match for my trowel.  I placed it

in the blue, plastic grocery bag

and went in for the last perfect, little turd.

 

I swept underneath and it rolled

Into the cradle.  Then it rolled off. 

Again,

I swept underneath it – in the opposite direction

this time, sort of backhand-like – and again,

it rolled into the cradle and

rolled back off. 

I repositioned myself

and went back down at it;

a different angle, a different method.

This time

it summersaulted on me,

end-over-end-over-end

until finally

it wedged itself between

a few formidable blades of grass.

 

Again, I drove the spade down at it – this

time using less patience and tact – and cut

a bit of it at one end.  It seemed the best I

could do was push it along

through the grass. 

Push –scoop – push – push – scoop – push. 

Before I knew it, I was waddling along behind

a piece of poo that did not want to be scooped,

and I was getting pissed.  Very pissed.