Poop Wars

I worry that posting another blog with something related to my pets will pigeon hole me as a pet fanatic or a cat lady or some other such character and I should probably try now to defend myself, but such is life.

I walk Bella everyday, usually twice, once in the morning for about an hour and again for a half hour after dinner. My dinner, not hers. So Monday night we're out, just before dark, thanks to the time change, and she's already done her business in the open space behind the housing tract, which takes up about 5 acres. Now we're heading into the neighborhood to do a routine one mile loop.

I'm wearing my ipod, which I haven't worn before on a dog walk because I think it's important to hear cars when I'm walking the dog but tonight I've decided for reasons I do not know to throw caution to the wind, and have Bella on the stretchy leash, which I often do on neighborhood walks despite all the bad things that dog trainers have to say about them. Bella stops at the first house on the corner to do some serious sniffing. She's got her nose to the ground, and I've somehow wrapped the stretchy leash around her back side. I tug it, and she doesn't come. I look back, and see that it's pulling behind her back legs, making her squat as she moves slowly forward. I start to walk toward her to unwind the leash when I hear something. I remove one ear bug. Clap clap clap. Huh?

It's a man. He's standing outside his front door and he's clapping at me. "Clean it up," he shouts, "clean it up!"

"What?"

"The dog poop. Clean it up!"

"She didn't poop."

"Yes she did. I saw her squat."

"She didn't poop. She's caught in the leash."

"I saw her squat. Clean it up!"

Now I'm getting frustrated, and honestly, a little angry. I regain my composure, stand up straight, and shout back at him.

"You know what, I ALWAYS carry bags with me. She did NOT poop. Come see for yourself."

More words were exchanged, but they got us nowhere. Eventually he went back inside, and I continued on my way, but I'm certain he came out to inspect the lawn after we'd turned the corner.

Now I'm not saying there aren't bad dog owners, cause there are plenty. I do carry baggies, most of the time, and in the one case when Bella pooped on a lawn and caught me unprepared, I walked next door to a neighbor working in his garage and asked if I could have a baggy. His wife happily retrieved one for me, and I scooped up the poop and proceeded on our walk.

But this guy really got under my skin. Was he sitting by his window watching for rebel dog walkers? Does he really have nothing better to do?

The couple who lives in the house across the street from me has three Jack Russell terriers. I like to call them jack terrors. They like to poop. Everywhere. All the neighbors have witnessed them doing their business on the lawns yet no one has ever seen the owners clean any of it up. It's a free for all.

The owners are nice enough people. Mid-thirties, I'm guessing, married, no kids. Their wireless provider shows up on my server as thomas69, with Thomas being their last name, and I think that's tacky, but it's a free country, right?

Right?

I noticed two small new piles of dog doo on my front lawn yesterday, no doubt the byproduct of the jack terrors (I live at the end of a cul-de-sac), and I think this time I'm going to do something about it. Something against my nature. Something...passive aggressive.

I'm going to conduct a clandestine poop re-depository mission under the cloak of darkness. Unfortunately I have a large bright street lamp over my driveway and lawn, so I'll have to wait until midnight or so, after which time I intend to shovel up the dried scat and toss back where it belongs...on thomas69's lawn.

I'll let you know how it goes. In the mean time, I'm thinking about making up a special lawn sign for the poop Nazi and surprising him with it. Something straight forward like, "Clean Up Your Poop" or just "No Pooping." Or maybe, in the spirit of diversity, it should be a picture instead of words - a squatting dog circled with a line through it.

P.S. I should tell you all now that this isn't my only blog. I have one other that I blog on more often, but it's sort of of well um private. More a journal, really, a place to vent without anyone I know reading what I'm venting about. A blog of anonymity. My apologies for truancy on this blog.

All content copyrighted 2009

Nine 1/2 Tweaks

What was I thinking when I sent out an email alerting people that I had started a blog? I mean, really? Now I feel obligated to post and guilty when I don't, which means I've been feeling really guilty.

But I'm guessing not as guilty as Mickey Rourke's plastic surgeon, or at least not as guilty as he should be feeling. Have you seen him? Mickey?

When I was growing up, I thought plastic surgeons were employed only to treat accident victims. When my 10 year old brother wondered what it would be like to ride a bicycle while blind, closed his eyes, and careened into a thorn bush, a plastic surgeon put a dozen stitches in his bottom lip. There are no scars. I had never heard of breast implants, collagen implants, brow raises, or eye lid reductions. My grandmother told me that the lines on her face were a map of her joys and her sorrows, and I believed her.

I have watched in horror as plastic surgery has evolved into a fashionable pursuit, and when Michael Jackson's disfigured nose and ghostly complexion graced the cover of People magazine, I was revolted. Camera ready he is not.

Weird thing though, the images of Rourke's gritty train-wreck of a face make me want to go see "The Wrestler." I'm not drawn to anything wrestling related and were Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise playing the role, I would pass, but it takes a lot of courage to shoot a close up when you look like that. I saw Barbara Walter's pre-oscar night interview with Rourke and was struck by his fragility. He's not a happy man, and I admire his refusal to pretend otherwise. Maybe channeling all that personal angst into his character has made Rourke a damn fine actor. I intend to find out....as soon as The Wrestler is released on DVD.

Where would I be without Netflix?

All content copyrighted 2009

The Begging Writer

It's not easy finding a name for a new blog, at least not if you want the blog name and web address to match up. After about an hour of trying to come up with a name that hadn't already been used (fatcatyoga, bluestocking, writersblock, bookends, spinster...), it occurred to me that no matter what else happens, aside from the sun always rising and always setting, this one thing is true: Bella and Fitz will beg for treats.

I should probably mention that Bella and Fitz are pets not people. Although some people do beg for treats, so it certainly wouldn't be unheard of if Bella and Fitz were my niece or nephews pleading, albeit politely, for Zots or chocolate cream pie. But no, Bella is a dog, and Fitz a very fat despite-everything-I've-tried cat. Both of them LOVE treats and are on a tenacious quest to procure them, Fitz by whatever means possible, and Bella mostly by good behavior.

Coming here, writing this blog, is sort of like begging for treats. I'm a writer with writer's block. My block has sustained itself for so long now that it's become a disease. I am starting this blog in hopes that it will keep me accountable to writing everyday because that, after all, is what all good writer's do. They write. Everyday. And when I do that then maybe the chaos in my head will start to take shape into something discernable. Maybe what I start on here I can take with me into my fiction.

Clarity is my treat. Clarity and truth. It is what I seek after.

All content copyrighted 2009