I always pick up Buddy's pooh when I am out walking him. Always. I don't really see the point of it, to tell you the truth, but I always do it because that is what you are supposed to do.
This morning, I walked Sam to the Exhibition Gardens, it is a lovely walk first thing in the morning. On the way back, as Buddy pissed on a tree, he also had a big diarrhoea squirt across the grass, which is kind of unusual for him. I looked at it and contemplated what I could do, fingering the pooh bags in my pocket? Maybe, if I had a sponge, or a hose, I thought? Deciding that, really, there was no way that I could pick it up, I proceeded to walk away.
A fat lady in a tweed coat and a granny perm was walking passed. She pursed her lips and audibly tutt tutted and said, "Really!" in her best schoolmarm voice. She pulled big eyes (until she looked like she was going to have a squirt out the rear end herself) and looked at me and then looked back at the offending pooh and then looked back at me. Then she tut tutted loudly again.
"You're the type who gives dog owners a bad name!" she said. She shook her head as she continued walking to the church scone stall, I can only assume.
"But, but, but..." I stumbled (I always pick it up). She looked angry. I wanted to call after her, "It's not like I just killed your first born grandchild, great grandchild," but I decided that, perhaps, that wouldn't have helped.
I'm not sure what she thought I was going to do? Get down on all fours and lick it up? Maybe, if I'd had a hose...
Hopefully, it will rain this afternoon.