Not his own, thank god, or I wouldn’t get to wander around the yard every couple days flexing my Popeye muscles and perfecting my fling. Because even though my “yard,” such as it is, is surrounded on three sides by scrub pine, this little barrel of bricks chooses to drop his juuust inside. And when I say “juust” I mean five feet; seven, tops. It’s not a place I ever walk, and no one ever comes over, and it’s not like I’ve got a lawn to defend. Scrub pine grows in loose sand; grass does not. Which suits me fine because I can’t stand doing yardwork anyway. In fact, I could just leave his leavings where he left them, and let them kill what little grass there is. It’s not like he eats his own poop, anyway.
I did mention that my dog eats poop, right?
Well, he does. But not his own. But I have to pick up his poop anyway – even though he doesn’t eat it, and even though there’s no danger of me or any other human person ever setting foot in that back “yard” – because Wiggles McGee here does tear around in that perimeter, and when he’s in tearing-around mode he’d leave a dog-shaped-hole in the goddamn Great Wall of China. Seriously. For example: At Thanksgiving? My brother-in-law threw a toy behind the couch for him and he ran over my father to get to it. And I do mean Ran Over. As in literally. As in: jumped up to his lap, launched off of his belly, and soared over his right shoulder. Because he knows he’s not allowed on the couch in that house, so technically he didn’t touch it. See? He’s a good boy. And he’s smart as fuck.
But, I don’t know if I mentioned this yet or not yet: he does eat poop.
He also pees on his own front feet for Christ’s sake. So something tells me he wouldn’t give a shit if he stepped in some. Then he’d come inside and tear around the house and track it everywhere and I’d slip on it and fall down the stairs and break my neck and when the Sheriff came in looking for my body the whole house would be smeared with poop and it would be on the local news and passed around on Facebook and everyone would tut and cluck about why a 48-year-old woman had no children and pretty soon there’d be a rumor that I did have some but killed them and buried them in the backyard. That’d be worse than dying in dirty underwear, I think. I mean, like I said, I don’t even have a backyard.
I’ve googled it. There’s all kinds of advice out there about getting them to stop eating their own poop – though most of it involves distracting them before they have a chance to choke it down – but he doesn’t eat his own poop. Just poop that he finds, you know, lying around. Like lucky pennies. By the side of the road, or on the mountain, stuff like that. The other day? When he was off-leash on the trail? I came around a corner and saw him chowing down on a pile that think was from a buffalo or elephant or something. When I called and he came running – with a look on his face that made me understand the phrase “shit-eating grin” – the smell of it on his breath hit me before he did, and I had to toss his reward-treat down the trail a ways to head him off before he licked Mountain Buffalo all over me. And Google doesn’t have a word to say about the Mountain Buffalo
I thought I’d try their advice anyway. Get a toy that would be new and special and exciting. One he’d like a very lot, keep it in my pocket, and he’d only get to play with it if he successfully ignores the tantalizing world of Wild Poo. Optimistic about this new idea, and convinced of my dog’s trainability, I piled him in the car and drove 45 minutes to Walmart. Where I found these:
I give up.
My dog eats poop.