Islay the Scotty and I go out nearly every morning - I ride my semi-recumbent "geezer trike," and she trots along beside me, marking territory, trying to chase wildlife, and greeting two- and four-footed fellow travellers on the path next to the road.
Along our way, we pass by several refuse containers with dispensers of smallish plastic bags for use in cleaning up after one's dog. These are provided by the city of White Bear Lake, and those of us who occasionally forget to bring our own are grateful for this modest urban indulgence by our town.
Judging by our trip this morning, Islay and I conclude that there are others who live here who seem to believe that the droppings of their pet are valuable as fertilizer or as works of art or as a quadrupedal "gang sign" to others of that ilk. Or they believe that the "poop fairy" comes along in the dew of early evening and scoops up the remains and carries them off to some sweet smelling abode where they can reside for eternity. (The English seem to like the word "poo," better than the word I used a few lines ago, and I agree it has a touch more innocence and might be used in the mixed company of very good friends.)
Oddly enough, it appears that it is only owners of larger dogs who succumb to these fantasies about the impact of their forgetfulness. Once or twice, I could have sworn that a horse with diarrhea had come down our road several hours after a particularly large meal.
Yes, it's not a pleasant topic, but after a certain age, matters biological take on the same sort of fascination they did when you were three or four, and it simply can't be helped. Better to focus on the misbehavior of neighborhood dogs than anything which might be, shall we say, closer to home.
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