In the twelve years Henry and I have been cruising the hood, he was never one to poop on a walk. He preferred his own backyard, and while I always carried a bag I rarely had to use it.
That changed about a year ago when he decided it wasn’t a bad idea to use a public space for that purpose and would sometimes go twice. Thanks. While I see people swinging their bag of crap all the way home, I like to clean it up and get rid of it. Fast. Pronto.
In my effort to use less plastic bags, I am often searching for a bag to take along with me. As a last result, I will use the bag the newspaper comes in. Not only our are daily papers too thin these days, the bags they come in are even thinner making them a poor choice for scooping poop.
On Henry’s 2nd movement of a twenty minute walk on a lovely spring morning, I only had a newspaper bag left to do the deed. I strategically rolled it down my arm so I could get this job over fast. I picked up the poop and it felt hot………like right out of the oven which I guess it was.
That’s when I discovered there was a hole in the bottom of the bag and I was clutching a pile of shit in my bare hand.
I screamed. I freaked. I wiped my hand ten times on the grass. I cut the neighborhood stroll short and went home to take a long, hot shower. When that was over and I had taken some deep, relaxing breaths, the rest of the day went much better.
Bare-handed shit picking up. My new barometer.
