Yesterday I took Ollie on a walk along his usual route through the neighbourhood. He pees on pretty much the same trees and poops in a couple usual places. Sure enough, he stopped at around the one quarter mark to leave a fresh deposit on the grass.
I pulled the lavender scented poop bag from the pocket of my jacket and scooped up the doggie turds. I'm not sure how it happened, but my right index finger ended up getting fresh poo on it. It was a light brown, almost stone ground mustard coloured yellow. All up underneath my fingernail. O.M.Gosh! There I was staring at my dog poo-ed finger, big eyed with horror.
It was all I could do to not start gagging since I've always been super sensitive to smell. Because it had been damp all day, I bent over and rubbed my doggy poop finger on the grass repeatedly until I was seeing dirt, glancing furtively around to make sure no one witnessed my little mini breakdown. I was on the verge (Brit speak for grass adjacent to the road) standing before a tall row of hedges rather than someone's front lawn, so I didn't feel one whit of remorse about mangling a swath of grass to save my sanity.
As I stood up, I looked at Ollie's innocent little liquid brown eyes and knew I had to finish out the walk even though it meant getting a few odd stares for walking with my right index finger extended waaaaay out as if that arm had no elbow joint. Ollie adores his strolls down the tree-lined streets and I knew he would be disappointed if we returned home so quickly. Maybe I need to add a travel pack of baby wipes to my pocket for just such emergencies because I don't want a repeat of this anytime soon. Oh the things we do for our beloved pets.