Warm, sunny, 70 degrees. A perfect day for going out in the yard and scooping poop. Normally, this thrilling job is left to my husband, but with the occasional business trip sweeping him away (get it?) I’m left with the less than savory chores. The culprit, of course, is no help.
He creates a lot of work. He’s 80 pounds, after all, and he eats a lot of food.
He also eats a lot of other stuff. Picking up after him is a voyage of discovery. “What is that- tinfoil? Ugh….dissolved diaper innards- DAMN YOU DIAPER GENIE! You failed me again!!” Most of the time I try to adopt a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. Anthropologists will be able to examine my yard hundreds of years from now and get a good idea of the daily life of a family in the early millennium simply based on a careful examination of my dog’s poop. “It appears Barbie dolls were still in fashion. Here we have a collection of mismatched plastic shoes and one disembodied head.”
Emmett does believe strongly in contributions to science, and fertilizer.
The yard doesn’t have any complaints. There is that.
He isn’t as indiscriminate as one would hope, however. At the bottom of the steps is a small play area covered in rubber chips. Emmett finds this to be a fine rest area with its commanding views.
Fortunately our resident Type A has a vested interest in keeping the area under her swing poop free. I’m not sure if Emmett is supervising, or just waiting for her to finish so he can sully the corner under the slide.