We don't have a dog now. Last year, when the world was different, we travelled a lot, and a dog is about as conducive to travel as a broken leg. But dogs have often been present in my life, an unfailing source of loyalty and affection. Though Pepper, our first, might not be the best illustration: I was a couple of months old when she seized me from the pram and dragged me to the bottom of the garden. Her way of showing affection no doubt, but then she was also affectionate with the bone from the Sunday roast.
Then came Bertie the basset hound, who slobbered a lot but was very good-natured, always up for a game of skittle or hopscotch - the game for us was in trying to get him to uderstand the rules. The slobber was forgivable, but he had another unfortunate flaw which wasn't. He liked tearing things apart. Living things. Specifically, sheep. Given that we were surrounded by farms, it didn't endear us to the neighbours, and although he had a large garden to roam in, Bertie clearly thought he was in Colditz, where I was the Kommandant blocking up the many tunnels he dug in his attempts to escape.
After leaving home and childhood, I moved to France, where I lived for many years happily dogless. But when I had children of my own, I let them persaude me that life was barely worth living without a dog. Big mistake. Pepsi, a griffin, came from the animal rescue centre, and took full advantage of her new-found freedom to explore far and wide, one day never to return. We never knew what happened. Perhaps she drowned in the nearby river, but not before leaving us with two sons, one of whom went to my sister-in-law, the other staying with us. Educated from an early age by his mother, Jimmy was an inveterate roamer too, our garden's puny defences no match for a dog as determined as him. He fell in love with Lily, a Golden Retriever a mile or so down the railway track, so I'd stop there after work, give a short blast on the horn, and he would come bounding out to get in the car. Any attempt to restrict his freedom was unwise: shut him in the house for an hour and you'd come back to find the three-piece suite in tatters. Other items he mangled were my wallet, the laundry bag and the telephone. When he fell ill, sensing his end was near, he dragged himself to say farewell to Lily before coming back and keeling over in the acanthus. Sad though we were, it was also something of a deliverance.
In all those years of dog ownership, one thing I'd never done was pick up poop - it's not something country dwellers do. But not long ago we did a house swap with America, where one of the conditions was that we look after Minnie, a beagle, in a neighbourhood where no one wanted turds on their perfectly manicured lawns, not to mention the well-attended golf course. So twice a day I set out with Minnie, equipped with a little blue plastic bag, which I then deposited in the nearest bin. You get used to everything, I suppose, but I always felt a little uncomfortable chatting with neighbours with a bag of poop dangling from my hand.
At the time, I wasn't thrilled at the experience, but everything comes in handy for a writer:
Rounding a corner as she walked back up the hill, Sophie was surprised to step very close to some dog poop. Not surprised that she’d nearly stepped in it but that it was there in the first place, an unsightly blot in the spotlessness of the postcard.
It seemed to be fairly old – not that she was an expert in dating poop – and with a pang of guilt at how little she’d done to find him, she wondered if it might have come from Zizou. Perhaps, if she took it to a poop laboratory, they’d be able to determine the precise species that left it there, and she thought for a moment about picking it up, because so far she hadn’t –
Gross! Pick it up? What for?
Because that’s what detectives do.
What, pick up poop?
No, clues in general. I haven’t got any. I need some.
Hmm. Magali was dubious. And if it does turn out to be Zizou’s, what then? You’d know he came this way a few days ago. Not a fat lot of use, is it?
Quite. Just a thought. She moved away, relieved to leave that particular clue where it was. Like, I’m up for it if need be, you know?
Dedication. Commitment. Excellent. But believe me, you’re better off collecting gossip than poop.
Truffle Trouble, in which Sophie sets out to find a missing dog and ends up finding a lot more, is still available for a few more days at the special launch price of $0.99.
I had no idea country folk were so squeamish about the mere idea of cleaning up after their pets. Not even to compost the waste and spread it round their flower and veggie patches? Even if they have no compunctions about leaving piles of poop in place to deteriorate naturally, where is their sense of global responsibility?
Or have I been mistaken in walking Hugh, a sweet Lab/Spaniel/Pomeranian mix, twice a day through the neighborhood, returning home, poop bag in hand to toss in the garbage bin, instead of letting him relieve himself in our yard, ensuring an inevitably diminishing square footage for humans to enjoy as we tiptoe through the doo-lets. Eew. Now, that’s something to be squeamish about.
Not squeamishness at all – there’s just no need. At least that was so when I was a child and I doubt things have changed, nor see any reason why they should have (I’m not sure where global responsibilty comes into it). As for Hugh, keep on – you’re doing the right thing.
Comments are closed.