I've mentioned the rhubarb incident and the neighbor's yappers who race over to our yard every morning to do their business. Now a third dog has befouled my grass. I was tootling up our little road on the way home the other day when I saw an older gentleman—bold as brass—letting his medium-sized canine defecate on our front yard. I pulled into our driveway just in time to watch the dog's back legs scratch through the dirt and grass to cover his pile, while I received a cheery wave from the dogowner. I will admit our yard slopes down the hill and kisses the road, so it's a handy spot for anyone out walking, but it's not like there aren't acres upon acres of forest and fields out here. Plenty of bathroom space.
To be fair, the man did have his dog on a leash and he did pick up the poop. But I'm having trouble getting the image out of my head of my baby girls rolling around on that grass. I keep thinking of missed particles and germy residue. Am I being too neurotic about the whole thing? What has happened to me? I used to love dogs. In fact, I think I still do. I just don't love their poopy. I suppose I should be more understanding. When a dog's gotta go, a dog's gotta go. My husband says you can't control where a dog's going to let loose and the owner picked up the mess, so what's the big deal? Still. Gross.
Dinner last night (and I'm truly sorry for having to write "dinner" and "dog poop" in the same post): cheeseburgers, watermelon