In my loose series of Pre-Parental Advice, imposed without request:
Number 2: POO!
I don't get people who spend a few hundred on a dog, knowing that they'll be retrieving its poop off the ground, all warm and sticky, reeking in their plastic-wrapped hand. For twelve years. Before the little creature eats it himself. This I have seen, and it haunts me.
What the hell people? At least cats have some shame!
How wonderful are these animals? I've seen other people's dogs, and sure, they seem really nice. But the ones my family got a few years ago were all insane, frenetic little creatures. Giant rodents. They lost battles of wits with craneflies.
|The dumbest insects on any planet.|
That would have driven me mad, to commit to that.
I've mucked out a few sheep barns, and among the many unskilled jobs I have held, cleaning hospital rooms was one of the worst. More on that later. I am not afraid of poop, in any way. I have done my time shovelling, wiping, and pitchforking shit for good and all, if there's any way I can get out of it.
But I did clean my son's ass for three years. I was his anal hygienist, and I am proud to say I kept him pretty damned squeaky the whole time. I wanted that outcome more than I wanted to completely avoid the sight, the smell, and the feel of poop. It would have been a fair trade.
But ladies and gentlemen, I tell you, you don't have to make that choice. I had it all.
The Ninja Parent's Guide to Poop
|First off, this is wrong.|