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Monday, 20 February 2012

Dog Days
I blame Dastardly
Shit on a shovel. Literally. Or should I say shit in a sack. Again, literally. 
I've noticed a bleak trend on my daily constitutional along a popular walking trail near my cave. Dog shit, strung along fences and tree branches like festive turds. Steaming mounds of poop festoon trees like baubles and fence posts like finials, thinly disguised in red, yellow and green plastic.
Course, you know what this is all about don’t you? Arse-brained dog owners who have the scant capacity to clean up after their squatting hounds but clearly not enough left to then dispose of said outpourings in a way that doesn’t make you want to put your own eyes in the bin.
Tell me, boggled reader, just who does this? Who puts their dog’s shit in a poop-a-scoop bag and then hangs it on a tree 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 fulfils the first portion of the cleaning up process. However, it has then been draped on the adjacent flora, thus, as far as I’m concerned, obliterating the first act so completely that it’s like the Hiroshima of dog walking.
What a stunning fucking disconnect in the minds of these idiot dog owners. It’s as if their brains short circuit mid-cleanse and they suddenly wake up to find themselves clinging onto a bag of shit before casting it into a tree in a blind, amnesiac panic.
It’s also so astoundingly selfish that my own brain short circuits at what this means for fellow path users. And you know what it does mean? That some poor fucking council worker, who gets paid sod all to roam the area with his litter picker, has to collect up these arsely gifts like a cat burglar with a fetish. It also means that the rest of us have their glorious spring walks regularly punctuated by the sight of trees that actually look as if they’re growing their own tag nuts.
Worse, the area in question actually has bins 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 owners completely.
So perhaps I should start stalking these fat-handed twats, collecting up their stinking decorations and strewing them about their own gardens in the dead of night. I mean, who needs petunias when poo will do? Bastards.



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