Neighbourhood Watch



Neighbourhood Watch…

I have been given reason to recall getting a postcard from my Dad years and years ago, outlining an incident that I will never forget. He was travelling in his beloved Paris, when he suffered a fall that left him with a busted ankle.

“Travelling at approximately 0.5 kilometres an hour down the Rue de la Roquette, I have injured myself due to slipping on a dog shit the size of a dinner plate!”

Since becoming a dog owner myself towards the end of last year, there is nothing more horrifying to me than my dog dropping a turd in public and me having no means of which to pick it up with. Those who know me understand how squeamish I am with, well, just about everything, will know how much I have to dig deep to scoop up a hot stinky shit without adding to the problem of bodily waste via an incidental vomit. Isobel Barbara likes to drop a turd in the most mortifying scenarios, like when someone is trying to pat her, or on someones driveway while they are trying to reverse out of it, or in front of a grandstand of spectators at the footy, or in front of a crowded cafe.

And everyone stares at you as you frantically go through your handbag trying to find a baggy to pick up said shit, while Isobel pretends that everything is cool.

I am obsessed with picking up dog shit as I myself am a magnet for stepping in it, something I clearly inherited from Dad. My general rule is the more intricate the sole of your foot wear is, the larger the shit of which you will tread in will be. Flat sole, say that of a ballet flat, will mean the chances of you stepping in plop is minimal. But don a trainer with an intricate patterned sole, chances are that you will tread in the only dog poo for square miles! Something only a paddle pop stick and a tissue will fix. (That or a new set of trainers.)

But let me get to the point of this post.

There is some fuck-knuckle in our neighbourhood who likes to collect their dog poo while walking and thinks it is perfectly ok to deposit said shit on the corner of Goodman and Woog.

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Over the week, the bags pile up and my blood pressure goes to a place where, quite frankly, it ought to not be. Eventually, I lose my shit and pick them all up and place them in my bin. Now, it is bad enough having to deal with Isobel’s crap, but now I am dealing with what is clearly an Alsatians crap as well.

So if this is you, and by some slight chance you are reading this, stop being an irresponsible bastard. You are not creating an art installation with your bags, you are creating a localised rage, as I am not the only person who you have pissed off in the hood. And in OUR hood, you are likely to be discussed over streaming hot cups of tea as we try to raise funds for CCTV coverage on the most feared corner of Pleasantville.

Dog Shit

Ever stepped in it?