During the eight years that I have been in a relationship with my dog, she has been nothing but loving, giving and very intuitive of my desire to not scoop the poop. I have almost three acres of land and she has been courteous enough to befoul the outskirts of my property and not defecate on the portion of greenery that I mow on a relatively frequent basis.
Today, I cleared the lawn of the remnants of chewed branches and fired up the mower for what may be the last mow of the season. We have been enjoying a later-than-usual heat spell so mowing in November is an enjoyable treat. I nonchalantly pushed the machine in the usual fashion, adhering to my own rules of the direction of lines in my lawn maintenance, and it happened. The shit literally hit the fan (or the mower blades, close enough).
I hadn’t thought to look for any brown bombs on the lawn because Callaway is too gracious and too private to leave her feces in plain sight. I silently cursed as the wafting smell of dog crap reached my nostrils and I did everything in my power not to gag. I glanced over at the deck and Callaway was watching with a deep concern for my well-being. There was no sense of embarrassment coming from her, so I knew the poop in question had not been produced by her. We both glanced in the direction of the neighbor’s house and knew that the black lab from next door had left his calling card.
(image credit: quickmeme.com)
Perhaps we should have had a few more scheduled play dates so Callaway could train Casey in the art of excrement. At least I will be more prepared the next time I have to cut the grass and I will scan the lawn with a thermal imaging camera. You can’t be too careful these days and, as we all know, shit happens!