It's A Better Job Than You Think
Some people might cringe at this but...I've been picking up dog turds for more than 25 years. I shudder to think of the total number that I've collected in my simple way: a small garde
n shovel and a non-descript dark brown office garbage pail. I'm sure, just before I die, I'll recall the smell of all those piles of...dog poopy and think fondly of all of the animals I got to care for.
It's not as easy as you think, to look among the detritus of oaks, redwoods and sycamore leaves and find small brown ropes of 1 inch sized turds. I believe this work has done wonders for the "plasticity" of my brain. Yes, that's the new science that many researchers are exploring these days; as we age, it would appear that stimulated, engaged brains are expanding brains. I'm looking forward to the possibility of my next 30 years (my grandfather lived until 100) with my role as "Turd Man" or more accurately "Turd Pickup Man."
I have tried, my best mind you, to entice two sets of children -- my stepkids and my biologicals -- in this "art" of, what I've called for a long time, the "dooper brigade." Alas, none has seen fit to take up the family mantle (I wonder what a "coat of arms" for me might look like: forget the trident -- you can't pick up anything with that device.) I am it as far as picking up goes. "Are you sure you don't want to learn how to do this?" I tease my kids once in a while. They smile. I think about that smell I'll recall on my death bed.
There are some unique aspects of the enterprise: I get to see when my dog has been going off our "strict" nutritional intake program and eating cellophane or some small plastic child's toy; yellow is the easiest color to spot: nice contrast. I haven't yet found tools but, one time, with my previous dog, I do remember seeing a twisted leather finger from a work glove; except for the stitching, it didn't look that damaged.
California, I must say, is a better place for the activity than Illinois: the drier climate helps with the excavation from the ground. And, the composting process is faster. (I haven't used it for any plantings just yet but...I'm thinking hard about it.)
The job is, often, a wonderful one because I don't have a schedule for it. So, the work stems from inspiration: "Oh, look there, some turds...hmm, where's my bucket, my shovel?" I'm completely absorbed, too; it's akin to the intellectual enterprise of writing this piece: I must immerse, figuratively, myself in the task.
Henry, our beloved 13 year old, 92 pound golden retriever, is quite effective at supplementing his expensive diet with cat food, decomposing garbage items and compost remnants. I love him dearly and feel very close to him. But I'm clear that he has no understanding of this task of mine; once in a while he'll watch while I'm picking up his poo and give me one of those looks that says, innocently of course, "I have no idea what you're doing...I didn't ask you and...oh, did you know that searching for those turds is good for your brain old man?"
Some people might cringe at this but...I've been picking up dog turds for more than 25 years. I shudder to think of the total number that I've collected in my simple way: a small garde
n shovel and a non-descript dark brown office garbage pail. I'm sure, just before I die, I'll recall the smell of all those piles of...dog poopy and think fondly of all of the animals I got to care for. It's not as easy as you think, to look among the detritus of oaks, redwoods and sycamore leaves and find small brown ropes of 1 inch sized turds. I believe this work has done wonders for the "plasticity" of my brain. Yes, that's the new science that many researchers are exploring these days; as we age, it would appear that stimulated, engaged brains are expanding brains. I'm looking forward to the possibility of my next 30 years (my grandfather lived until 100) with my role as "Turd Man" or more accurately "Turd Pickup Man."
I have tried, my best mind you, to entice two sets of children -- my stepkids and my biologicals -- in this "art" of, what I've called for a long time, the "dooper brigade." Alas, none has seen fit to take up the family mantle (I wonder what a "coat of arms" for me might look like: forget the trident -- you can't pick up anything with that device.) I am it as far as picking up goes. "Are you sure you don't want to learn how to do this?" I tease my kids once in a while. They smile. I think about that smell I'll recall on my death bed.
There are some unique aspects of the enterprise: I get to see when my dog has been going off our "strict" nutritional intake program and eating cellophane or some small plastic child's toy; yellow is the easiest color to spot: nice contrast. I haven't yet found tools but, one time, with my previous dog, I do remember seeing a twisted leather finger from a work glove; except for the stitching, it didn't look that damaged.
California, I must say, is a better place for the activity than Illinois: the drier climate helps with the excavation from the ground. And, the composting process is faster. (I haven't used it for any plantings just yet but...I'm thinking hard about it.)
The job is, often, a wonderful one because I don't have a schedule for it. So, the work stems from inspiration: "Oh, look there, some turds...hmm, where's my bucket, my shovel?" I'm completely absorbed, too; it's akin to the intellectual enterprise of writing this piece: I must immerse, figuratively, myself in the task.
Henry, our beloved 13 year old, 92 pound golden retriever, is quite effective at supplementing his expensive diet with cat food, decomposing garbage items and compost remnants. I love him dearly and feel very close to him. But I'm clear that he has no understanding of this task of mine; once in a while he'll watch while I'm picking up his poo and give me one of those looks that says, innocently of course, "I have no idea what you're doing...I didn't ask you and...oh, did you know that searching for those turds is good for your brain old man?"
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