The other day as I walk mindlessly in the grocery store next to my apartment, occupying myself by pretending I actually need to go grocery shopping, I spot a nice chunk of mud on the side of my bunion toe, squishing between my new red Dorothy sandals and my improperly manicured big toe nail. My first instinct, which I regrettably followed, was to wipe off the mud with my fingers — why not touch the mysterious black gob on your foot as your simultaneously prod the habanero peppers for ultimate freshness? Oh, that’s right, because it’s definitely a hunk of a dog shit now smeared all over my forefingers and up into my nail crevices as if I’d been mincing up shit flavored garlic.
Obviously, as an attempt to appear less materialistic in the super local, plastic-is-the-devil, doesn’t-carry-jiffy-peanut-butter market next door, I didn’t bring my purse which consistently has at least 5 different types of hand sanitizer at all times. So I began to venture around the store, dragging the shit side of my poop foot on whatever rug I could like I was Keyser Söze. There’s no hand sanitizing stations anywhere because someone is clearly punishing me for some severely overlooked past transgression.
In the middle of wandering around, I realize I actually don’t have to be shopping at all, since I only came for the joy of being able to tell Matti I left the apartment that day, but I realize if I buy something I can most likely bother the cashier for some hand sanitizer, despite how mean her mustache looks. Obviously I get stuck behind two — let’s call them “older” — ladies who had apparently spent the entire night prior plotting the best ways to elongate the grocery checkout process.
The cashier wasn’t pleased and I immediately regretted the line I chose to stand in — this lady reminded me of Miss Storti, my old middle school substitute teacher who chain smoked out the window in the classroom, called every girl “Trixy” and sounded like she had a hole in her throat (she also once made me stand up and lift my arms over my head in front of the entire class to prove that my belly was showing). The cashier seemed just as personable. The level of annoyed she looked at having to box the old ladies groceries instead of bag them was akin to me coming home to a freshly made dog shit on my rug.
Three hours later in shit-on-your-fingers-time, it was my turn up at bat with the
headmaster from The Little Princess the cashier. I couldn’t help but think of the cashier I had a few days prior whose sense of humor I LOVED:
“Hey, Gabe, remember that time we worked at Sprouts?” She half-shouted to the cashier two registers down, laughing to herself, then continuing to sing a song about dancing women that was playing in her head.
But I had the one lady who didn’t think that Sprouts was a locally-owned dream to work at. Thankfully, I was only buying an onion, and hopefully, a chance to clean my shit-smeared fingers.
As I began to pay, I mustered up the quietest, least threatening request for the keeper of the sanitizer, “Excuse me, I hate to ask but I have some crud on my hands. Do you mind if I use a squirt of your sanitizer?” Instantly I was thankful my brain chose “crud” instead of “stinky-ass-dog-shit” which was the more accurate description.
She agreed with her mouth, her eyes, however, were telling me that she was going to find me later to Tanya Harding me in the parking lot.
I walked home in the middle of the street, despite beeps from angry drivers who clearly didn’t empathize with my shitty (get it?!) situation. But my shit day didn’t stop there. Because I had to take Tengo to the dog park to poop, which is the appropriate location for dog shit. At the park I was greeted by a gigantic turd pie IMMEDIATELY outside of the entrance to the park. It’s an approximate four second walk to the doggy bag station from this poop pile. If you’re reading this and you’re all like, sometimes you’re just in a rush and can’t pick up the poop, well then please send me your address so I can come take a huge dump on your lawn, right on the path you walk to your car every morning. And also, you’re the absolute worst. I seriously hate you so much — because I used to be you, when I was six years old and didn’t understand what personal responsibility meant. I seriously want to just poop everywhere I can in hopes that you step in it.
I don’t know how we have gotten to this wretched, dark place in doggy poop etiquette. The other day at Anna’s dog park, I picked up five shits that were not Tengo’s simply because I was offended. These turdlets were tiny and apparently this is common because tiny dog owners think their tiny dog poops are so tiny and cute that mystical turd fairies will come with little turd wands and turn it into compostable glitter. This is not the case.
Would you just leave your shit in a public toilet without flushing it? Because that’s what you’re doing, except worse, because people aren’t wading through public toilets to get to work. I swear to god if you assholes don’t start picking up your dog’s shit I’m starting a neighborhood poo watch and there will be consequences. And all you dog owners who can’t find the time to pick up your dog’s shit, please do me a favor and never have children.
Do you want to join my dog poop watch club? Are you also severely concerned about the lack of dog poop etiquette? Do you need me to help you get dog shit off your shoe?