Blackpool Tower (Photo credit: llamnudds)
This is an edited version of an old post, written back in the days when nobody read me. It’s about dog poo, a recurring theme in my life (and I wonder why nobody read me back then; the wonder is that anybody reads me now).
The theme is repeated; the post is repeated…it’s like we’re stuck in some crazy poo loop, destined never to move on to, oh, I don’t know, something less unsavoury, like spit.
I’ve got nothing to write about; I’m tired; I’m in a bad mood.
Enjoy!
Just yesterday, a little girl spotted the plastic bone on Toby’s lead that holds the poo bags and she told me I was ‘a good lady.’
I think I am: in this instance, anyway. I ALWAYS pick up my dogs’ mess. Sometimes they co-ordinate poos (a sort of dump in a lump), but on opposite sides of the park. When that happens, if I can’t find the second poo, I pick up another dog’s poo to compensate. There is always another dog’s poo available.
I don’t know how dog owners can be so lazy as to not pick after their dogs; it’s disgusting. I lost count of the times that Spud would toddle beside me when I took Tory Boy to school, then topple over into a steaming pile of irresponsibility. Fortunately, there was a large bin on the way so I was able to strip off his trousers and chuck them in. Not so bad in summer, but his little legs turned blue in winter.
In case you think I’m cruel, I always had his pushchair and blanket with me, but he would refuse to get in and cover up. That child loved to walk. At less than two years old he spent fourteen hours in Blackpool on a family day trip and we used his pram to carry the junk people always buy/win in seaside resorts, because he point blank refused to be wheeled.
Except for one larcenous half-hour at the fun fair, when he sat in his pram to have a drink: we walked through the shop, looking at tat, and it was only when we got back to the car that we discovered he had snaffled three sticks of rock from one of the low shelves, and stuffed them down the side. He did a similar thing in Mothercare when he was eighteen months old, but that time it was a pack of plastic ducks for his bath. I’m raising a villain.
In spite of my criminal son, I need you to tell me how great I am, to pick up after my dogs. everyone needs praise now and again.
I read this quote once: Everyone needs recognition for his accomplishments, but few people make the need known quite as clearly as the little boy who said to his father: “Let’s play darts. I’ll throw and you say ‘Wonderful!’
The Laughing Housewife 
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)