I live in a place where dogs are as much a part of the landscape as Subaru Foresters, mediocre coffee houses and Montessori-raised children. In fact, when I walk down the street, I know more dogs' names than peoples'. (I don't have a dog. I travel too much, I'm too tidy, I'm too selfish, I like to sleep in. I had a hedgehog once, but that's beside the point.) I love dogs. Other peoples' dogs. I like talking to them, catching their eye. flirting with them. I enjoy the adoring, trusting optimism of dogs. People-with-dogs generally seem happy to be people-with-dogs. People-with-dogs interact with other people-with-dogs. Dogs are a conversation starter, dogs make people seem more compassionate, dogs humanize humans. Big dogs, little dogs, aggressive dogs, shy dogs, dogs dogs dogs. Dogs in cars, dogs on leashes, dogs waiting for their owners on the sidewalk, dogs swimming at the beach, dogs sleeping, dogs running, dogs begging, dogs being dogs.
Dogs poop a lot. (So do people, but I'm writing about dogs right now.) I walk a three-to-four mile loop in the woods every day. I see a lot of dogs. I see a lot of people-with-dogs. What I don't see is a lot of dog poop which is great. Most people-with-dogs are very courteous about such things. I am grateful that the poop is collected and not in the middle of the trail - I tend to let my thoughts wander as I walk and I don't always look where I'm going. So, thank you for accepting the demeaning responsibility of collecting your dog's feces; for suffering the warm, mushy sensation - but for the grace of a hair-thin layer of petroleum - of momentarily holding excrement in your hands. It must be love.
But here's something that I'm noticing more and more. Dog poop bags. Full. Neatly tied off. Black ones, green ones, blue ones, camouflaged ones. Left by the side of the trail. Or on the trail. At the base of trees. On rocks, under ferns. Tucked away neatly. Or prominently displayed on fence posts ala lost mittens or eyeglasses. Always as if the owner intends to return at a more convenient time to retrieve them. I don't think they do.
I'm lost here. I've already admitted that I don't have a dog, so perhaps I'm missing some crucial aspect of poop-scooping that people-with-dogs accept as their sacred commune. Are these coded messages to other people-with-dogs? A warning, perhaps? The saddest Easter egg hunt ever? Colorful clues to true and everlasting happiness?
No wait. If this was a part of the generally accepted people-with-dogs ritual, there would be more bags. They'd be everywhere. No. This is the work of one individual. Or perhaps a small minority - given the variety of bags? I have to ask myself, would I rather be dodging unadorned piles? Would I rather have my forest trail mine-fielded like a walk down the Champs Elysees?
No, but why not follow through? It's not laziness. One has to acknowledge the foresight to grab poop bags on the way out the door in the first place. Then the effort to stop, unfurl a bag, turn it inside out, bend over, collect the offending material, and tie off the bag - all while managing (I imagine) the impatient straining of the leash and the muttering of "good boy"s. So why then, leave it behind? So close! Is it to leave physical evidence of consideration to others? Is it a primal human need to leave a trace, a tag, a mark? Is it some convoluted notion that it is a natural part of the ecosystem and a nitrate-rich way to give back to the forest - in biodegradable bags? If this is the case, why not fling the bags deep into the woods?
I love dogs. I do. Everybody poops. I've read the book. It's people I don't always understand.
Next Up: people who flick cigarette butts out of car windows and don't think they're littering.
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