Oh, Shit.

My life is shit.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

My day revolves not around me (which I'm shocked, just shocked to discover - I mean, I AM the center of all that is fabulous, right?) but around someone else's colonic needs. (Clearly not my own, as ladies don't poop - we have an upset tummy only remedied by some lovely calming book reading in the library - the one with a sink in it)

Yes, we talk a lot about poop - I seem to forever be plunging a bowl (okay, fine, so sometime's it is because I've ignored all warnings and flushed that which should not be flushed) supplying toilet paper, walking in all weather, simply to empty bowels. collecting it, disposing of it in various manners.

Walking should invoke a raised heart rate, deep breathing in, noticing roses (or weeds, whatever) softly scented breeze wafting through my perfectly coiffed hair......instead, I'm dragged around by a dog that weighs a mere fraction of what I weigh.

Embarrassing enough, fyi.

To realize my eyes are not on the flowering and now blooming wee grapelets on the grape plants, but are firmly on the puckered sphincter of my stampeding mini beagle?

Christ. I might as well just paint a sign that says Pussy Dog Owner right on my chest. In my defense, her center of gravity is lower than mine, thus making it that much easier to yank me along; however, I'll skim over the part of the walk where she pulled, I wasn't ready, and I face planted in the field. Drawing a veil over that experience. And the audience.

I thought winter time I had it bad. Dressing in snow gear, freezing my ga-zoogies off, forever tramping to and fro for The Spot to Drop. I'd no idea how good I had it then. Then, we were a One Drop Family.

Now? Now? Three drop minimum. No, I do not mean all in the same place, or, that she was walking along only to find her finicky bowels let loose - three separate drop zones. All with copious loggage.

I'm not sure I'll every carry enough bags for her; and I'm cheap - I don't want to go through an entire roll of bags in a week. It's just.....too much. Instead, I'm left with my I'm Too Cheap To Buy More Bags, so I get one from the free spot (they're sturdier anyway, so I never again need face - well, it was gross, ok?) slap on a gas mask (or I would if I had one) and carry an open palm of Poop en' Bag, clump it all together in one bag, and viola' - homeward bound.

It does limit the number of folks I converse with while out walking. To like, zero. I don't blame them - I'd never willingly wander up to some crazy dog owner walking around with an open bag of poop nestled in her hand. I wore gloves one time (the purple ones, as you already know) - that only painted me as a hysterical germaphobe who can't close the goddamn poop bag. Let's face it, you're first thought when seeing me with that open bag of feces steaming in my palm is not her dog poops a lot. It's I'm an idiot.

The hardest part for me to accept? That there was THAT much in there in the first place! HOW she has that much remains as much of the mystery - since we drop that much dung several times a day! WTF?!

I can only imagine how bad this would be if I fed her that brand, where the little dog talks about not only being a good pooper, but and optimal one. I know it's yellow - so I stay far away from any dog food bags with yellow in them. Currently, I'm trying to find one that has less fiber, more constipating beet root, fewer calories - should be littler poop, right? RIGHT? - but it still leaves the conundrum of where on Earth she's getting all this poop in the first place.

God help me too, because yesterday? While out? (it was gorgeous, thankfully) Our last dump was quite close to home - close enough to drag her up the back stairs to the deck door - and being my mother's child, where we re-use ziploc baggies after washing - I had that thought.

I could flush this, and wash the bag.

Re-use bag.

Save me, please.

I told you my life is shit.