Gross

Recently, I shared that a cross-communication between myself and the Carpenter created a temporary panic on my part (and a fit of hysterics on his), with regards to the backyard poop scoop job. 

I had mistaken the Carpenter’s aerated tubular soil nuggets, which were spread throughout the backyard, for our dog Scout’s toiletry business. What? They look the same. I nearly passed out thinking I’d neglected my yard scoop up duties too long. Either that or Scout was having serious issues.  

As the saying goes, fool me once, shame on him. Fool me twice, well, it’s still his fault, but whatever. When he aerated the front yard, I knew better. But if it looks like poop to me, what would the neighbours think? At first glance, it looks, well, gross. 

Many passersby have canine companions and to their credit, they are respectful folks who pick up after their pet’s potty performance. But there’s always that one who assumes our lawn is fair game as a doggie latrine. That’s the last thing I want to encourage.

The Carpenter was raking them up, so I decided I would help. And I think you all know by now just how much the Carpenter loves it when I help him with any task, but most especially yard work. Gosh, he just loves it so much when I ask about his plan, his vision for the yard, then offer my suggestions that will most definitely deviate from that plan. It’s fun. I enjoy it.

As you can imagine, he was thrilled to see me come outside. Ecstatic. Beyond joy at my offer to help. It was written all over his face. You know that wince, like either the sun’s directly in his eyes, or I’ve just told him I’m picking the movie tonight and it has English subtitles and no violence or nudity, but lots of crying. Like maybe he wants to ram the aerator through his own foot? That wince.

But gosh darn it, he just can’t say no to when I’m so utterly keen to be helpful (also, he knows I’ll get distracted and quit eventually; this enthusiasm is temporary, like when I say I’m cooking dinner). 

He gave me two buckets and strict instructions to gather the soil nuggets into said buckets, then drop them into two large divots on the lawn, before pounding them down with my boots. One job. Two buckets. Three steps to success. There was absolutely no way I could screw this up.

Eager to impress, I got straight to it, taking breaks only to allow the acid reflux of the morning coffee to slide back down my throat after I’d bent over too long. I was speeding along thinking this was easy and boy, was he going to be impressed. I’d remind him that I’m no princess. Dirt under my fingernails. Sweat on my brow. Working hard. 

You know where this is going, right? The title of the column gave it away. Turns out one of those soil nuggets was, in fact, a doggie doodie bullet, which I found out the hard way – or soft, squishy way, as it were. And it wasn’t from  my Scout. True story. Gross. Like, really gross. 

Did I quit? Pitch a fit? Refuse to continue? No, sir. I ran into the house, washed my hands twice, and got back outside to the task at hand. I’m no quitter. Also, there is no way I’d give the Carpenter the satisfaction. I just proved I make an excellent yard-work person. He’s thrilled. Ecstatic. Overjoyed.