Friday, January 20, 2012


There are a small number of chores that fall outside my realm of responsibility. Mowing. Cleaning the garage. Fixing things. Picking up dog poop. All things that I classify as outside maintenance. I am strictly an inside maintenance kind of gal.

People poop = Bring it!
Doggy poop = Hells no.

Just like everything, there are times when the outside maintenance items get thrown into my chore soup. I will occasionally mow our tiny yard or clear off the shelves in the garage. I almost always pull weeds and spread pine straw. And every now and again, I will don the plastic grocery bag of shame and pick up dog shit.

The Husband uses a pooper scooper contraption, an instrument that, despite every effort, I can not get the hang of. I end up mashing turds, or missing the bag, or the bag itself falls off and the turds tumble out in a great pile. So I opt to bag my hand, wrinkle my nose, and get up close and personal with the by products of Shutup Roxy's varied and colorful diet. Polly Pockets, Barbie shoes, crayons, small articles of clothing - the contents of her crap almost make it a game.

Is that a tiny hairbrush? Oh, nope. My Little Pony head!

Usually, it's a once a week chore. During the summer time, when temperatures soar and the backyard becomes a giant, steaming pile of dog logs, the frequency increases. In the winter, when the lawnmower is put away for the season, and we're outside less frequently, and the pudding pops have turned to shitsicles, well- it's easy to forget. The backyard becomes The Shitting Fields.

"Man. I really need to pick up poop." The Husband says.

The next day it rains. Every pooper-picker-upper in the world knows you can't bag black bananas the day after it rains. You have to give it a day to dry out. So, two days later-

"Man. I really, really need to pick up poop."

The next day, of course, it rains.

Shutup Roxy, having run out of room, lays a hogan on the patio.

The forecast calls for rain all weekend and I have reached my turd tolerance limit. This afternoon, I put Henry down for a nap, turned on Spongebob for Julia, double bagged my hand, and braced myself for the cavalcade of crap.

What I encountered was poop in every size, shape, texture and stage of poopness. Some of it, so old it had gone gray and become fossilized. Some of it had what could only be described as a growth. A lone Polly Pocket head gazed up at me, encapsulated in a fudge pocket, only her face and her long, gray hair was visible. Except it wasn't hair. There were some butt nuggets that didn't even look like they had come from Roxy. Maybe she's been inviting the neighborhood dogs over. Hey! Come shit in my yard! No, no, they don't mind! I do it all the time!

In the end, I picked up a bag of full of poop that weighed more than my two youngest children combined. As I placed the bags in the garbage can, something fell from above onto my hand. I looked up, and it started to rain.


  1. In New Mexico, we just let all the shit sit under the snow for six months and then we do an archaeological shit-discovery in April. In amongst and intertwined with the shit are plastic bags that were blown into the yard, tiny trucks my son has left in the yard, and raw hides my dog has "saved" for later. It's what's called a time capsule. That's how do it in Northern climates. So, no worries.

  2. You really scared me good at the end there, Kelly: "something fell from above onto my hand."

    I was thinking that "something" was just simply more shit but perhaps from God. Bless-ed shit. Crucifix shit. Apostle shit. Holy shit.


  3. This is why I will not have a dog. I saw a man walking with his dog down the street the other day: a bag of take-out in one hand, a bag of dog turds in the other. Not just no...

  4. No dog, but I still claim the inside chores only. My husband is TERRIBLE with our lawn maintenance and uses the excuse that he just does not like yard work. I usually respond with something like, "Well I don't like laundry, but it looks like that is tough shit for me, huh? Somebody's got to do it!" But in the end I usually wind up doing more than I bargained for.

  5. In this, as in all things, timing is everything. ;)

    Your mention of fossilized dog poop reminded me of a bit off of Eddie Murphy's "Comedian" album. It was probably before your time, but it's hilarious (the whole album, but the dog poop in particular).