Tuesday, April 5, 2016
A story about poop
Those who know me know there is nothing that gets my blood boiling more than litter.
"Oh, no, she's said the word ... here we go guys." - those who know me.
It's not just the very act of littering, which, of course, is an effing horrible thing to do — you know, the whole completely disregarding the planet and the wildlife who live in it thing.
It's the people who have the nerve to litter that really rankle me.
What I hate most is this: the mentality that throwing a piece of trash somewhere is actually an acceptable behavior.
Because what kind of mentality must you have to not only overlook the environmental damage you're making, but even just to blatantly shirk the general landscape of the place that you live. And to think that your tiny contribution to a bush's litter-to-leaf ratio would not add up to a greater, larger, more devastating, ecosystem-ruining and human-life-as-we-know-it-ending problem is pure self-regard.
And it's not just this one thing, littering, in a person's psyche that makes them do that. In fact, I believe littering is just a symptom of a more horrible psychological problem — one psychologists like to refer to as narcissism. It's a problem that plagues this nation, and it's this tragedy of the commons that makes driving on I-70 through Frackville, Ohio such a goddamn miserable experience.
To think that if you're finished with an item the best place it should travel next is in some bushes on the side of the road willy nilly, my god.
What kind of people litter? The answer is garbage. Garbage people.
So that not-bitter litter rant brings me to my poop story.
On my dog, Pete, and my usual walk this morning, we waited for a woman in a mini van to pull out of her driveway as she blocked the sidewalk waiting on traffic. (Don't worry guys, I waved her ahead and she waved back in appreciation. She's not the bad guy in this story.)
Pete clearly hadn't seen my little hand conversation with this nice woman, because he was very impatient, pulling from side to side as the 10 pounds I had on him worked its booty off to keep him in check.
She pulled away and we proceeded.
Then Pete pooped in her yard.
Almost as if to spitefully say, "I'll show you, slow van." (Of course not to say that. After all, he's a dog. Not a cat.)
Shit, I thought.
Not cuz he was, but because I'd forgotten the cute little plastic bone that goes on the end of his leash and is filled with little green biodegradable bags so I can be a good neighbor and also not leave crap around the world like I so passionately loathe. (Sidenote: Leaving poop in the woods or in a bunch of bushes is completely different than a 16 oz. styrofoam MegaFreeze cup on the side of the highway because fertilizer, biodegradation, etc.)
I felt horrible.
There it was.
Pete's steaming pile of stink.
Staring at me.
I looked around.
The giant dog at the end of his leash tugged on my wrist.
I'll finish the walk and put Pete in, then return with a bag and dispose of the waste, I thought.
We continued our walk.
We got closer to the baseball fields just down the street, a park where I usually let Pete sniff and pee.
We approached some bushes I have to pull Pete away from on a daily basis. They're filled with giant burrs that stick to his cotton-ball furr like bubble gum, and apparently they have the best smells.
I started to tug to keep him out of the bush. Until I saw it. Sitting right on top of the sticklers, practically floating with an angelic glow behind it. The voice of monks singing praises. There it was. A perfectly intact plastic bag.
I grabbed it with only the kind of joy a child feels when Santa brings exactly what she'd always wanted. I dusted it off. I held it high above my head.
Not today Garbage People.