That's my word for poop-camouflage. It happens every year in the autumn. It's a little early this year, because we are parched. And we had that pesky little wind storm, when Ike met a cold front right over Paducah.
It's about time I wrote a poop story for this blog. This is the dog poop story headquarters after all.
The dogs and I get up around 6:00 to 6:30 in the morning. In the blessed summertime (my time of year, and the dogs agree) I let the dogs out first thing, and then I walk around with my pooper scooper and do the First Scooping. The early morning sunlight is at a steep angle, casting poop shadows long and far. Everything twinkles. while whippets tinkle in the sparkly 'shine, life is grand and I wave to my friend Carol as she drives by on her way to work. I tend to eat a significantly smaller breakfast after being up close and personal with the dog's last meal, digestified, and the morning chore is done before I'm fully awake.
Alas, now it is much too dark to dare de-poopage at such an early hour. So the dogs go out and do their dooty, come in and eat breakfast, and then we start our walkies routine. After two hours of walking in shifts of two and three per walk, now I have to scoop. This is more of a chore. I am awake. I have to pee. I am eaten alive by desperate blood thirsty it's now or never end of season mosquitoes. And then, the ultimate frustration: poopouflage.
There are two trees around these parts that I hadn't heard of back east. The Hackberry (also known as "widow maker" and the Piss Elm (pronounced 'peeis elum'). One or both of those trees drop leaves which look exactly like little whippet poohs. And in the morning, shiny with dew, to my old, tri-focalled eyes these leaves are indistinguishable.
For instance, is this poop?
How about this?
Is it one of Luciano's famous poop sculptures? Looch has an amazing gift, an unsurpassed talent at vertical pooh towers.
No, if you click to enlarge, you will see that they are all leaves. Tricky duplicitous Hackberry or Piss Elm deciduosities. You would think that I would have learned my lesson, but I don't think so well in the morning. In fact, I don't have a single articulate thought until after eleven. (Do note the time of publication of this blog entry! That explains it. Remember I am on USA central time.) So you would think that by now I would have figured that it is not the best plan to nudge the leaf with my Kroc to make sure it is a leaf. It never is. It is a mushy pooh and now I am gagging and retching because even after 54 years of stepping in pooh, oft times barefoot, I still can't stand it.
That's probably news to my neighbors, but there it is. I am fanatic about cleaning the stuff up, but I do not like it. I gag. So to the few of you who persist in leaving YOUR DOG's pooh on our property? I spew on you!!!! Stop it!!! I have quite enough of my own dogs' fecal gifts to gag over.
Sorry. I digressed.
So there you have it. Poopouflage. I did end up getting myself one of these:
It is my new very favorite article of clothing. I wore it to the Critter K walk. I came home from that and washed it and dried it and ironed it. I have never ironed a tee shirt in my life. Not once. But I ironed my Walks With Poop shirt and paired it up with black linen slacks and jewelry and wore it to our Dinner Club dinner. And then I wore it to the Neighborhood Pot Luck Cook Out last night and to the movies to see Bottle Shock.
I like it more than either of my wedding dresses.
hug your hounds