Tuesday, December 6, 2016


My dog eats poop.

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:

Hidey Ho!!

I give up.

My dog eats poop.

Friday, December 2, 2016


Yesterday, I woke up late.

Okay, that’s a lie. I don’t remember what time I woke up yesterday. You’d think I would, it was only yesterday, and no matter how many grey hairs I might have on my chin and other places I don’t want to talk about, it’s not like I’m a thousand years old, after all. But I don’t. The only reason I remember what I ate for breakfast five minutes ago is because I eat the same thing every morning: three hard-boiled egg whites and six cups of black coffee.

I hard-boil the whole egg and throw the yellow parts away. I’m not insane.

And anyway, even if I did remember, there’s no such thing as “late.” I didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to be. The dog peed when I did at two o'clock a.m. (I also peed at midnight and 4:30 but I am not a thousand years old yet, goddamnit, just shockingly well-hydrated). And, thanks to a decades-long combination of Strategic Defense Initiatives, I have so far managed to fend off every heat-seeking-missile shot my way.

I don’t have any kids, is what I’m saying. See what I did there? It’s a little gross, I know, but if you’re on this ride for the long haul you’ll have to take it on the chin once in a while. I did.

So where was I? Oh yeah: yesterday.

Well, my write-gears may be all wrenched and rusty, but there’s one thing I do remember: if I don’t sit down at the keyboard when I first wake up, it doesn’t happen. I can (or used to could, anyway) pound out a page an hour between 5 and 8 a.m., but give me a quiet house and a blank slate from noon until the cows come home, I’ll spend three hours scrubbing baseboards and the next three watching out the window for the cows.

But I woke up late (maybe). And it was gonna rain later (maybe) and the dog hasn’t had a good walk in a while. And in this house a good walk means three hours so when we got home we had to eat (or I did) and then there was this puzzle on the kitchen table that was achingly almost done and Moshe Kasher was on the Pete Holmes podcast and that’s also three hours long and then it was time to eat again (for both of us). And then I did sit down to write but it wound up being all about doctors and death, and to my ears it was funny in a morbid sort of way (pull quote: “Who the hell is gonna find my body before the dog gets hungry enough to forget who I am (or used to be)?” Ha cha cha!) but nobody wants to read that shit at Christmastime and so I scrapped it. And then I watched Hannibal Buress in Edinburgh on Netflix and went to bed.

In other words: I promised on November 30 to write 500 words a day, and on December 1st I didn’t do it.

So buttons. I’m a thousand. I’m allowed.

If it counts for anything: I didn’t shower, either. Oh, and also plus?

There was a piece missing.

The End.