A special place in hell

Those who know me would describe me as having the constitution of a drunk slug. I literally would have loved to have been a vet, but I lacked a few skills. I had sub-par examination results and I could not stomach blood and guts, so instead, I thought I would be a journalist, but again I had sub-par examination results and I could not stomach blood and guts.

So its a failed trophy wife life for me!

Since then, my squeamishness has gotten worse. I recall being in the car with my dear friend Kate, and she was telling me a story. She had pulled up at the lights and the bloke in the car next to her was scratching his head with some vigour. Then he appeared to have found something, a creature or some dandruff. Not sure. Anyway he pulled it from his head and then

he

ate

it.

Now, I just again wanted to clarify that I didn’t see it, Kate just told me about it but it was enough for me to ask her to quickly pull the car over, and I lost my guts. It was on Willougby Road. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Another example is one time, I was at The Divine Ms. M’s house making a cuppa, when she launched into a very descriptive, detailed report about something.. Carol the cat…. vet visit…. abscess exploding…..

I ended up hurling into the sink.

Again, just hearing about this stuff gives me a physical reaction of which I have no control over.

So you could just imagine my reaction last Tuesday morning. The sun was out, I was in an unusually good mood because the jasmine is out and I am an official old mole who now takes happiness from such things. I walked the boys to the end of the street and bid them farewell, asking them, as I always do, to try and not dump great shame on the family name.

Hi Mr Chand!

Anyway, I arrived home and did a once over of the house, collecting random socks, cups from rooms, you know, those things that come with maintaining ones residence to a satisfactory standard. There was a strange smell, quite unpleasant really. Kicked off my converse sneakers in the kitchen when I saw it.

Some motherfucker had not picked up their dog’s shit. Although I am fairly certain it wasn’t dog shit because it was the size of a cow patty. Converse treads are a highly detailed affair and my left shoe soles, well you literally could not see any of it.

Gag

and I had walked around the entire house in them

gurgle

AND THAR SHE BLOWS CHUNKS.

In closing I would like to remind all dog owners the world over, to please pick up your dog’s shit. Dog shit is super charged with all sorts of nasty stuff and can years to disintegrate. It is not like cow or horse crap, which is actually good for the garden. And you made me have to throw out my beloved cons because I didn’t fancy spending my day throwing up in between attending to it with a paddle pop stick and a box of tissues.

ARE WE CLEAR?