I am #@&!
I realize that this is a community newspaper, so put this column down and go watch wholesome prime time television, kiddies, but I can think of no other phrase to voice my displeasure for having stepped in dog feces that some insensitive pet owner left in front of my gate AGAIN!
Go ahead, laugh. It was funny the first time. The fifth time has lost its charm.
True, the word I wanted to use here is an inaccurate figurative expression of the bodily function that actually occurred, but it is less volatile than other four-letter words we can all think of at the moment.
Do you know how hard it is to clean dung off of suede boots? Neither did I, until Friday morning. Those boots were made for walking, and now they are covered in poo.
Seriously though, this is becoming a serial offense. I know we live in a pet-friendly town, which is beneficial to our spirits and that of our four-legged amigos, but really, people? What, was there a blink in the space-time continuum that resulted in the mass disappearance of plastic bags? You canâ€™t stoop to pick up your muttâ€™s poop because itâ€™s not the season? Please explain it to me so my violent urge to track you down and throw flaming bags of dookie into the side of your cave will lessen.
I am not a vindictive person. I like it when people can get along and are nice to one another. I write this to vent, and not with the resolute purpose to actually ventilate one of my fellow human beings (blame the owner, not the canine). The thing about living in an urban area (shoot, living on planet Earth in general) is that yes, your home may be your castle, but this is not your kingdom. You have to share it with other people, which I find to be a pleasurable experience more often than not.
But because we are all in this together, that means using some common courtesy and sense to go with it. This way, we can all get along and I can save money on my dry-cleaning bill.
In other words, pick up your dogâ€™s damn crapâ€¦please. Iâ€™ll even lend you a plastic bag.