Tonight I stepped in dog poop. On not-purpose. I didn’t realize it until I had already brought my dog in and walked through half of my apartment. 90 minutes later, paper towels dot the floor like cards in a crime scene marking spent shell casings. During that time spent on my hands and knees doing literally the least-fun thing you can do while on your hands and knees, I had some time to reflect on my situation.
2. If the social contract between neighbors is up for grabs, I want to shape it in my own image and smear dog feces on the handles of the doors to the apartments in which dog owners that do not pick up their dogs’ poo live.
3. My tolerance of cleaning up animal waste for my own pets does not extend to the pets of others. I’ve barehanded my own dog’s crap more than once without a blink, but I don’t want to go near Poncho’s skidmarks without anything less than a hazmat suit.
4. Tennis shoes are designed specifically to maximize the volume of animal waste that you bring into your abode with you from the elements. I’m sure there’s a scientific term to describe how such a quantity of shit can dwell within such a compact space, but I don’t know what it is. Running theory is Loaded-Weapon-Tardis “it’s bigger on the inside” magic.
5. One’s Sherlockian detective skills are amplified to Batmanian levels while searching for scatological deposits in one’s fucking carpet. I was able to determine after finding three shitspots (the technical term for feces that’s been ground down deep into the otherwise-pleasant fibers of your carpet) that there had to be another between two of my steps. After the usual method of putting my nose dangerously close to the carpet and sniffing like I’m trying to do lines of coke that’s been laced with whatever stuff made Eddie Murphy’s career faceplant didn’t work I was able to narrow down a six-square-inch quadrant of my carpet to scan.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a euphoric sense of success from the smell of shit blooming in my nostrils, short of that one time I ate only pasta for a week and my bowels had turned to bricks.
6. I found this guide to determining your stride by measuring the distance of your footsteps on the sidewalk after walking through a puddle of water. Did you know that you can do the same thing by swapping “sidewalk” with “the carpet that you walk on every day with your bare feet” and “water” with “a putrid pile of fetid dog shit?”
7. I have a really long stride. It’s a good thing, too–instead of taking a thousand millipede steps before taking off my shoes and peppering the carpet with butt truffles (hey, you try writing a blog about poop and see how long you can use “shit” and “poop” while keeping the tone fresh. Ew. Fresh. Also, thanks BuzzFeed for your hardcore journalism work.) –I left only four unholy brown stains on my floor.
8. I’m amazed that there hasn’t been a reality show made of this yet.
9. While there’s enough Biokleen Bac-Out in the apartment to wipe out the defeated remains of the putrid rectum warriors on my carpet, there’s not enough time turners in the world to get my 90 minutes of being on my hands and knees, nose to the ground, and dragnet searching for fermented shit back. Hopefully, there’s enough alcohol in the county to burn the memory from my cortex.