Poop Stinks - That Means ALL Poop

My daughter accused me of being keester-obsessed. She cited the numerous keester references in my previous posts. Okay, I concede. I seem to have a bit of a preoccupation with keesters. Therefore, I pinky swear not to mention keester once in the following post. Instead I will discuss poop.

I am an animal lover. As an animal lover, I am a dog owner. As a dog owner, I am a pooper-scooper. And as a pooper-scooper I have a question – Why is it that dog owners are expected to be pooper-scoopers, and cat owners are not?

I have nothing against cats, or cat owners, some of my best friends are feline fanatics. This is not about cats. This is about cat poop. The way I see it, poop is poop. And poop is not fun to encounter unexpectedly, whether it comes from a dog or a cat. Granted, cat poop is generally buried in the sandbox or flowerbed while dog poop is left unceremoniously in the middle of the front lawn. But, I say again, poop is poop.

Why is it okay for a cat to spray my bushes and bury surprises in my perennial bed, but, it’s not okay for my dog to leave a pile on an unsuspecting lawn? Dog owners can even be fined for allowing their mutt to crap on public property without cleaning it up pronto. And, there’s no getting out of it with a lame excuse like, “I was only trying to fertilize the grass.” No. Public officials and neighbors alike take dog poop very seriously. But not cat poop. Why is that?

I have a theory. Bodily functions in the four-legged world take on a whole different meaning than our two-legged interpretation. They mean things like, “This is my turf, bozo,” and “Hey sweetie, want to tango?” Cats, by virtue of their genetic link to the king of the jungle, the lion, are operating on the premise that they are somehow superior to other domestic four-leggers (and certainly to neighboring two-leggers) and therefore entitled to whatever turf they feel like marking. Kind of a feline version of “my poop doesn’t stink – but your does.” Dogs, by virtue of their genetic link to wolves, cower accordingly. I can understand where the cats are coming from; they do have an impressive pedigree. But, can it be that society is so intimidated by this jungle link that it can’t dare expect a feline to be poop patrolled?

That’s all I’m suggesting – that cat owners go on poop patrol and become pooper-scoopers just as dog owners are expected to do. I don’t mean to imply that all cat owners let their felines turn neighbor kid’s sand boxes into giant litter boxes, pee-to-death expensive shrubbery, or leave surprises in flowerbeds. And, in all fairness, not all dog owners are responsible pooper-scoopers either. The difference lies in the expectations of ownership. Dog owners are in deep doo-doo if they get caught slacking off on poop patrol, while cat owners can let kitty out without any concern for where kitty takes a crap.

In this age of political correctness it just seems politically correct to make all pet owners doo-doo responsible. And just how can society enforce doo-doo responsibility? I haven’t got a clue. It’s best we leave that up to our ever capable elected officials. Just think, instead of splitting along party lines, they’ll split along pet poop lines. That could lead to an interesting debate.

What do you think? Should all poop be treated equally?

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Fact or Fiction: Vegetable Day Shrinks Keester

I’m hungry -- so is Techno Spouse. I don’t feel bad for him though, since it’s his fault I’m in desperate need of a Vito’s chicken ranch pizza, pan crust with garlic butter. In our household there is a long-standing tradition. Saturday is Vito’s day -- but not this Saturday. This Saturday we are dining on vegetables. That’s it. Not vegetables and (fill in the blank), just vegetables.

The reason for this drastic change in our culinary routine is because Techno Spouse visited the Doc, the very same Doc that diagnosed my injured dumbass, er rather dermas. (see Naked Keester Causes Treadmill Incident below).

Techno Spouse has a tendency to clog up his arteries. He swears this happens because of heredity. The Doc thinks it happens because he eats too much of the wrong kind of junk food. Doc strongly advised he drop a few pounds and recommended Marie Osmond’s miracle diet.

One thing you should know about Techno Spouse, he is all about spending the big bucks on technology, gadgets and golf crap. But when it comes to spending several hundred dollars on shriveled up entrees, he’s not buying.

Which brings us to vegetable day. Techno Spouse, being Techno Spouse found the ultimate diet plan on the Internet. He assures me if I eat my vegetables, with minimal whining, I will lose 30 pounds by Monday. Just kidding – but if I’m not a petite size 2 by morning, I’m calling Vito’s.

Help! My willpower is fading. Any tips on shrinking my keester? I really want to be a petite size 2 at least once in my life and soon.

Naked keester causes treadmill incident

Dear Faithful Readers (both of you),

I feel as though I’ve been neglecting you recently. I’m sorry. I do have a good excuse. It appears I may have damaged my dumbass, er rather my dermas layer of my skin, the skin on my shin to be specific. You may be wondering how a boo-boo on my shin affects my typing skills. Good question. The answer -- I find it difficult to focus on typing when I am preoccupied with whining.

Here’s my story. One fateful day about a month ago, I took a good long look at my naked keester in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Remembering our long forgotten treadmill, I decided to immediately do something about my sagging birthday suit. I put on my tennis shoes, cleared the crap off the treadmill and hopped on. For about three minutes it was all good.

And then it happened. In an overzealous moment I decided to increase the aerobic workout by swinging my arms. To allow room for my gorilla arms, I stepped back … and stepped right off the treadmill. The good news is I landed on my keester. The bad news is I skinned the begeezies out of my shin.

After unsuccessfully dealing with my boo-boo for several weeks, I decided it was time for medical intervention. The nurse became quite flustered when I removed my Dora-the Explorer band-aid. She immediately went pale and started talking tetnus.

By the time Doc came in, it was obvious he had been briefed. Without actually examining my boo-boo (unless you count a glance while standing in the doorway) he said, “It appears you have damaged your dumbass, er rather your dermas layer.” He went on to tell me to “butter” the wound with this goopy white stuff and comeback in two weeks.

So you see, with all this shin drama going on, there’s no way I could be expected to type. I’ll do better from here on. Any of you have treadmill wisdom you’d be willing to share?