If you follow me on Twitter (@kylebandujo), you’ll have noticed of late that I’ve been really into my lawn. Maybe it’s the mark of how boring an old man I’ve become, but this summer I’m taking pride in the luscious green pasture that is my front yard. Watering religiously and keeping it decently trimmed is what my life is about now.
A few weeks back, my yard was a little on the overgrown side, partly because the sight of bright green and slightly overgrown grass is like swinging my lawn dick at my neighbors over how healthy my yard is. I pushed my mower over my flawless blades with near sexual delight in watching the freshly trimmed grass spew out like the spritzing of ocean water over a rock.
Things were going well, per usual, until I felt something soft that didn’t quite seem like grass. All it took was one glance down at my shin to know the travesty that had just occurred. My lawn is too manicured currently to contain even a hint of mud, so gut instinct instantly told me that the brown substance that had been flung onto my leg was dog shit. I don’t own a fucking dog.
I get it, dogs poop. Better out than in, that’s what my grandma always said. And no dog would choose to do their business on a hard and unforgiving concrete sidewalk when there’s a quality amount of fresh Zoysa that looks ripe to be dumped on. I’m not a dog hater; dogs need to shit and lawns make good shit-stops.
Now I won’t fault a dog for doing its business on my personal property, but I’m sure as hell going to point the finger at you, the owner, for leaving it there to stink like ass and collect flies. Its 2017, have some damn decency. We aren’t savages, this isn’t 1950s Mississippi, there are rules and boundaries here.
Again, I’m all on-board the “Dogs need to poop in grass” bandwagon. If I ever ran for office my slogan might be “Dogs Gotta Poop 2020.” As a teenage dog owner, and I dutifully walked my dog all over the neighborhood, wherever her heart desired. In my left hand, a leash. In my right hand, a flip-phone that was texting some T9 smoothness at girls who wanted nothing to do with me. Hanging out of my left pocket, however, was a plastic bag intended for removal of dog shit from other people’s lawns because I’m not a fucking monster.
You know why I don’t have a dog? Because 1. I’m afraid of commitment and love to something that statistics say I’ll outlive and more importantly; 2. I’ve already got a toddler to chase around and taking care of a dog is too much work.
If you’re a dog owner, you’ve accepted the call of duty that comes with it. That’s walking it, bathing it, feeding it, and everything else that goes with it. You undertake this to reap the benefit of a wonderful companion for you and your family. Part of that duty is being responsible for your dog’s bowels. You wouldn’t just watch it take a dump on a friend’s carpet and be like, “Alright, well hope you don’t step in that dog shit, see you later pal.”
I, on the other hand, do not get the benefit of having a wonderful companion that is the cute dog that lives in your house. That dog doesn’t hang out with me at home or play fetch with me in the park. Why, I ask you, am I having to put some of the work in to take care of that lovable pooch? When I strode out to mow my lawn on Saturday, I had to first take a plastic bag and remove a heaping pile of dog shit right in the center of my lawn.
I don’t get the joy of feeling that dog’s fur running through my fingers as I lovingly pet it as it sits beside me. I don’t get to chuck a tennis ball and watch it bring it back to me, tail wagging. I only get to feel it’s semi-warm excrement through thin plastic, or caked on my leg. Something just doesn’t seem right about that.
Plain and simple: carry a fucking bag around, or spend a few extra bones and invest in a nifty pooper-scooper. It’s about courtesy, respect, and the way of life. I’m trying to shape my yard into an aesthetically pleasing sight for you as you go on your walk. Do me the courtesy of literally not shitting all over that. .
Image via Shutterstock