Dog Days

I blame Dastardly

Shit on a shovel. Literally. Orshould I say shit in a sack. Again, literally. 

I've noticed a bleak trend on my daily constitutional along apopular walking trail near my cave. Dog shit, strung along fences and treebranches like festive turds. Steaming mounds of poop festoon trees like baubles andfence posts like finials, thinly disguised in red, yellow and green plastic.

Course, you know what this is allabout don’t you? Arse-brained dog owners who have the scant capacity to cleanup after their squatting hounds but clearly not enough left to then dispose ofsaid outpourings in a way that doesn’t make you want to put your own eyes inthe bin.

Tell me, boggled reader, just who doesthis? Who puts their dog’s shit in a poop-a-scoop bag and then hangs it on atree or fence? At what point does that constitute cleaning up after your pooch,exactly? Yes, the offending turd has been picked up off the ground and that fulfilsthe first portion of the cleaning up process. However, it has then been drapedon the adjacent flora, thus, as far as I’m concerned, obliterating the firstact so completely that it’s like the Hiroshima of dog walking.

What a stunning fucking disconnect inthe minds of these idiot dog owners. It’s as if their brains short circuitmid-cleanse and they suddenly wake up to find themselves clinging onto a bag ofshit before casting it into a tree in a blind, amnesiac panic.

It’s also so astoundingly selfish thatmy own brain short circuits at what this means for fellow path users. And youknow what it does mean? That some poor fucking council worker, who gets paidsod all to roam the area with his litter picker, has to collect up these arselygifts like a cat burglar with a fetish. It also means that the rest of us havetheir glorious spring walks regularly punctuated by the sight of trees thatactually look as if they’re growing their own tag nuts.

Worse, the area in question actually hasbins for the disposal of dog shit. Yes, bins. In which bags of turds are placed.A stunning invention, I’m sure, but one that has passed by these dog ownerscompletely.

So perhaps I should start stalkingthese fat-handed twats, collecting up their stinking decorations and strewingthem about their own gardens in the dead of night. I mean, who needs petuniaswhen poo will do? Bastards.