Friday, September 23, 2011

The Scoop

I deal with a lot of crap in my job.

And I mean that literally.

There are three different dogs that hang out in our office on any given day. They have drastically different personalities, but they share one thing in common: All three of them have had accidents of the second variety.

The first time it happened was about a month after I started. Bella the bulldog was wandering around, and as I sat at my desk I thought I caught a whiff of something earthy. No, not earthy. Stinky. I dismissed it, chalking it up to a stuffy nose and the smell of the dog herself. A few minutes later I walked into the conference room to make a cup of coffee and missed a scattering of fresh turds by mere millimeters. I muttered a description of the scene before me under my breath, and then turned to go tattle on the crapping canine.

As I began my report to my boss, I realized halfway through that this could backfire. I could very well be on the verge of a Devil-Wears-Prada type scenario. Would my degree from the Harvard of the Midwest now qualify me to clean up bowel movements? I breathed a sigh of relief when my boss gasped and hurried to the conference room to survey and rectify the situation herself.

On Wednesday, Frodo was at the office. He’s a sweet little ball of yellow fur, but he doesn’t have a whole lot going for him between his fuzzy ears. While I worked at my desk he stood behind me and stared at me for a bit. He eventually trotted off, but a few minutes later another attorney jumped when he attempted to cross in front of my desk. He also muttered a description of the scene before him under his breath, and then notified Frodo’s owner of said scene. She shrieked in horror and began berating Frodo, who only looked at her and wagged his tail. “Bad boy!” she cried. “You know better than that! We do NOT poop inside!”

On Thursday, Neko visited. He’s my favorite—a sleek, docile Weimaraner with doe-eyes the color of celery. When his owner left for court, I put his bed and water bowl by my desk, but he refused to lay still. I could hear him pacing the hallway, and I kept calling his name and squeaking his toy goose to entice him back to me. Finally, I stood up to see where he was hiding. And that’s when I saw it.

Them, actually. Three glistening, cylindrical, olive-colored turds. Had they been attached, they would have measured roughly eight inches long. They formed a loose triangle on the carpet, mocking me, daring me to leave them for the next unsuspecting visitor to trod upon.

The sound of nails clicking against hardwood brought me back to reality, and I realized Neko was downstairs by the entryway. Never having had a public accident, he was recognizably ashamed of his delinquent defecation. I made my way down the stairs and stopped short. Sure enough, another gleaming pile was on the doormat. Neko walked toward me with his head bowed. Clearly, he hadn’t been able to hold it or to communicate nature’s call, so he got as close as he could to the great outdoors. Of the three dogs, he’s the only one to show remorse.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I stuck my hand in a plastic garbage bag, gently clasped my hand around each still-steaming unit of chartreuse excrement, and disposed of the mess in an outside garbage can.

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