I took Spuds out for a walk in the light rain, and was relieved when he relieved himself with his usual impressive fecal discharge early on. I dutifully collected it in a blue New York Times bag—using the delivery bags for this purposes amuses me, as the final content of the bag is less noxious than its original product. Spuds even did his doo-dooty near a trash receptacle. “Now that’s over with!” I thought. Then I took my sweet dog on walk down one of the boutique streets in the neighborhood: lovely houses, elaborate gardens, perfect lawns. And Spuds walked quickly onto one of the latter, and duplicated his earlier performance. Topped it, in fact.
He almost never does this, but I almost always carry a second New York Times bag in case he’s feeling prolific. This time I hadn’t.
All the way back home, I was thinking of rationalizations and excuses for just letting the pungent pile stay. Hey, it was raining! It would be mostly washed away, right? Heck, it’s just manure on a lawn! You could hardly see it from the sidewalk. Heck, dogs leave equivalent gifts on my lawn almost every day! And I would have cleaned it up, but I was out of bags! Besides I don’t know these people. Why am I acting like this is a big deal?
By the time I got home, I had concluded that the only ethical course was to grab a bag, drive to that house, get out in the rain and remove the stuff.
Naturally, I was foiled. In the relatively short interval, the occupants had returned, and being as fanatic about their lawn as its appearance suggested, they had already removed the offending biological waste product. I briefly considered ringing the bell and apologizing, but that seemed excessive.
How I long for the golden days, not all that long ago, when I would have said, “Ah, the hell with it. It’s just some dog poop” and forgotten about the whole thing!