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It’s the last day of January.  The quest to find the type of true meaning that keeps me off of the couch is still in full swing.  Last weekend the quest found me removing the danger of avalanche from my walk in closet, in the process I found myself.. weeping over lost tee shirts.   Then I came out of the closet.  I needed something to keep me out of the closet this weekend.

Over lunch, I made an announcement to my wife and daughter, one I am quite sure they were not expecting.

“I think I am going to clean up the dog poop in the back yard this afternoon.”

My daughter gagged on her lasagna.  Miriam looked at me quizzically (dang, I like that word).

“What are you going to do with it?”

Our daughter gagged on her lasagna again.

Dog poop removal has been a bone of contention in our household for many years.  My wife had asked a loaded question, one might say it was a crappy question, a reason for me to call her a turd.

Are husbands allowed to call their wife a turd?

She had really stepped in it this time.

I should probably take a quick step back, catch my breath (or hold my breath) for a moment.  Today was a very mild day for January in Chicagoland.  It was fifty degrees, cloudy and a bit damp, but otherwise balmy.  There is no snow on the ground, but the ground is still frozen, and Nick the Sheltie’s modest droppings are still solid ice.  That’s perfect shit scooping conditions, my friends.  Considering it has been since November since my last forage for feces, the build up was considerable.  Left on its own, the volume of dog muffins might just get out of control.  So, with proper urgency, my quest alarm went off as I observed the back yard while we chowed down on our lunch lasagna.  It sounded a bit like this in my head….  DUNG!!!!

Can you tell that I looked up synonyms for poop?

As I said, dog poop removal has been a bone of contention in our household for many years.  Mostly the job of removal has been on my shoes, especially since I am the one who carefully care takes the lawn.  During the summer, I usually scan the back yard for dog mines before mowing the lawn, although often enough I just hope that the mower chops it up.  There have been a few times where I unexpectedly found something squishing up between my toes.  Those were the days when I mowed in my bare feet, the brown mixing quite nicely with the grass stains on my feet.  Occasionally, though, Miriam will pick up poop.  I think she does it just to show me the proper way to forage for fecal matter.  In her mind, I don’t do it right.

Don’t go there…

That has happened before.  Garbage duty used to be my responsibility, but at some point I discovered that she was going out and rearranging the way I had arranged the garbage and recycling for pick up.  I let her, so much that somehow garbage duty became her doody.

There are so many synonyms for poop.

When she asked what I was going to do with it, what she was really asking was whether I was going to gather the frozen feces into plastic grocery bags.  That’s what she does.  Her idea is to throw those bags into the trash.  That doesn’t always happen.  Many a 90 degree summer day have I opened the door to our back yard shed to be knocked over by the stench from bags of dog poop.

My method is simple.  I browse the grassy knoll with spade in hand, scoop the deadly excrement until the blade is full, then carry it back to the corner of our garden.  I fling it up against the stockade fence where it scatters into the corner.  Dust to dust, one might say.

I answered the question of what I would doo with number two by saying that it would be the usual method of manure manipulation.

“That stinks!”  she exclaimed.

Our daughter took the rest of her plate of lasagna to the sink.

In the end, my method won out.  It was my job to do, after all, and I was going to poo it my way.  I didn’t give doodly squat what my wife thought.  As I started the job and observed the amount of accumulation, I can understand why Nick the Sheltie always tiptoes daintily in circles around the yard, fluffy tail held high in the air, as he performs his doody.  He’s trying to avoid the piles.

Another quest for couch avoidance has been accomplished.  I have done my doody duty.

Any suggestions for next weekend?

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