Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Stepped Right In It

This morning as I was heading into Griffith Park for a hike and a scone I slid on something mushy. The traction of my new Nikes didn’t seem to work and I had to quickly twist and turn to maintain my erectness.

If I weren’t so damn in shape and agile I probably would’ve fallen and broken my coccyx or hip or my tibia or my fibula or crushed my testicles.

After catching my breath and surveying the area to make sure no one saw me, or was pointing at me laughing derisively, I looked down and there oozing on the side of my Nike was a pile of dog shit with leaves and pine needles attached. Not coyote shit (that would be considered good luck in The Book of Michael), but medium to large dog shit.

Perfumed shit it wasn’t.

Truth be told I’m a dog lover (I can do without cats), and the reason I don’t have a dog is because I don’t want to have to carry a supply of plastic bags every time I walk the dog so I can scoop up the shit. No matter how good you look, carrying a bag of dog shit in one hand and a leash in the other doesn’t invite social intercourse. I mean how do you shake hands hello?

What happens if as you scoop up the shit there’s a hole in the bag? Smelly fingers for the rest of the walk? I don’t think so.

I looked around at the various dogs in the area trying to determine which dog had the “I just shit and I feel good” grin on its face. I narrowed it down to a mongrel looking dog and a Saint Bernard. I squinted my eyes and growled at them. Their tails stopped wagging the shit wag. They got the message and quickly dragged their inconsiderate owners away.

Next time I won’t be so kind. I’ll follow them home and shit on their carpet.

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