Oh Shit, Buddy, What to Do?

We walk to the supermarket to buy dinner. I'm am slow getting ready so Sam gathers all of the accoutrement together. Just after we leave, I realise I want to do tattsLotto and I hadn’t bought my wallet, so I tell Sam, and he tells me I am being wasteful, but I run back for my wallet anyway. I change out of my track pants and into my jeans, as I need pockets for my wallet and my glasses case. We head down to Smith Street first, then to Woollies. I keep walking with Buddy, after we drop Sam off at the supermarket, as is my usual way. We get to the first of the two double fronted houses where the Plain Tree leaves gather by the fences and Buddy takes an enormous shit. I reach for my pooh bags only to realise that Sam hadn’t given them to me before we parted at the supermarket door. “Oh shit!” I say, out loud. “Oh crap,” I say as I futilely pat down my pockets in some hope of finding the small plastic bags. I didn’t even bring my phone - considering I bought nothing at all to begin with having my wallet and glasses was pretty good going - so I couldn’t even call Sam to fetch him out of the shops.

What to do? There is nothing I can do, I walk off.

I feel bad. Buddy did a mountain of pooh and he hid it amongst the leaves quite neatly for nobody to see until... I continue on our walk.  Damn, I think, I can't be that person. I decide I can get the pooh bags from Sam when he comes out of the supermarket and I can walk back and clean it up. Yes, that is what I’ll do. Let's hope no poor sod stands in it in the mean time. I look back to the scene of the crime as if mentally returning to it, to see what looks like the owner of the house standing at the front gate, as if he knows what I have done. He seems to be looking in my direction. I am glad about my decision to return to clean it up.

Buddy and I walk to Johnston Street and then we walk back to the supermarket. I resist the urge to cross back over the street and physically return to the scene of the crime, I only want to return with the pooh bag in my hand, actions speak louder than words, after all.

I see the owners young daughter run down the street through the leaves out the front and into her house and in her front gate. I wince and the feeling of urgency wells up inside me.

Just as we are returning to the back door of Woollies, I see a random discarded plastic bag lying in the gutter, one of those new slightly green, smooth to the touch vegetable gum completely biodegradable veggie bags from the fruit and veg department and I pick it up and turn to go back down the street to pick up Buddy’s mess. At which point, of course, Buddy decides not to cooperate, in true bulldog fashion he says no! Why are you trying to turn me around? No! No! No! I’m not going back that way, and you can’t make me.

So close. My anxiety hits a new level. We were only about 100 metres from the scene of the crime. So I decided to drag Buddy back there, and he resists the whole way, as only bulldogs can. So, in the matter of 100 meters, or so, I could be accused of breaking local council dog bylaws and no doubt charged with dog cruelty. Yes, indeed, I am a responsible dog owner.

As I am back at the front gate of the house in question, I see Sam waving from the back door of Woollies. He seems to be pointing at somebody standing next to him. I call out, “Come here, you have the pooh bags.” As I call out to Sam, I can see through the front door of the house in question and I can see at the end of the hallway the owner is on the phone to somebody. I gesture to Sam to join me. “I need another pooh bag,” I say.

“It is good of you to come back,” says a voice. The owner is now at his door.

“Oh, I always pick it up, but, my partner had the pooh bags,” I grimace and shrug, “he took them with him to the supermarket by mistake.”

“My daughter wants a dog and it is heartening to be able to say to her that there are responsible dogs owners in the world.”

His daughter is standing next to me with the inquisitive expression of a seven year old. (I have no idea how old she was, I have no idea how to tell children’s ages) clearly waiting for me to say something. “Oh yes, you must pick it up, as people don’t like it when you don’t.” That is the best I can do, I think. Always a lesson for the children, not a world I inhabit generally, but, it was the truth. “Personally, I think is is biodegradable, but the law says you must pick it up, so pick it up you must.”

“Thank you,” says her father.

“Oh?” He was effectively thanking me for picking up my own shit. I thought that was kind of amusing. “Well, ordinarily I wouldn’t have left it in the first place, if I hadn’t accidentally left myself with no pooh bag with which to pick it up.”

Sam and I walk off. I hand over the reins to the bulldog, I was a little over him by that stage. Sigh of relief. It was my street and I walk Buddy in it nearly every day and I certainly didn't want to get a name for myself, which wasn't really justified. It is true, I do pick up his pooh, always, well, 99% of the time, and I reckon 99% is close enough to call it all the time.

Sam cooks salmon steaks for dinner, with a warm veggie salad. It is gorgeous.