Now that the snow has mostly melted, I faced the horror of cleaning up all the “deposits” my Golden Retriever, Puppypie, has been leaving in the back yard since late December. Unrelenting snowfalls have been burying layer after layer of her nuggets, like archeological artifacts found at various depths. As I ventured out into the minefield, I was armed only with a too- small pooper scooper. Let me tell you, the inventor of the pooper scooper deserved to win the Nobel Prize, certainly more than Obama. I felt like I was living the civilian version of “The Hurt Locker” (except no Academy Award), as I navigated around mind numbing numbers of piles. What did that dog eat all winter? How does she keep her weight up? Some of the piles revealed evidence of past thefts: a rubberband here, remnants of some missing tax documents there.
As I was cleaning methodically, my face locked in a rictus of disgust, Puppypie added insult to injury by taking another dump. Afterward, she looked at me contemptuously, as if to say, “Slave, you missed a spot!” My hand was actually getting sore from repetitive operation of the pooper scooper’s spring mechanism. I hope I don’t develop carpal tunnel syndrome from this adventure. Pooper scooper injuries might not be covered by my medical insurance.
I worked in ever expanding concentric circles, reversing the schematics of “Dante’s Inferno.” Finally quit for the day after about 70% was done; time for a new garbage bag anyway (I’d be awfully sore if it split open: “wimpy, wimpy, wimpy!”). As I was often told by prudish young women in my bachelor days, “This way, you’ll have something to look forward to later!” Puppypie is a Golden Retriever, but today I think I did most of the retrieving. It wasn’t very golden, either.