Stepping In It

Today, I want to talk about something which is considered, well, a sensitive issue to some. My father-in-law cringes when any reference at all is made to this particular subject. But it needs to be discussed. After all, everyone does it. And I need to talk about it. Let's talk about poop.

On a recent Wordless Wednesday, I tripped across the picture above at The Simple Times in Life. When I read the sign I uttered a single, gusty HA! and quickly wrote something in Angie's comment section about needing a service like that here in The Netherlands. I asked if I might have permission to use her photo here at this blog. She said yes, and a post about poop was born.

So, let's talk about it.
Poop, I mean.
Dog poop to be precise.

Living in The Netherlands is not only our first experience living outside of the United States, it is also our first experience in city living. Not that Phoenix isn't a proper city itself, but like many western US cities it is a mass of suburban living. We moved from an area where most folks have a house with a yard. A yard used presumably for recreation and family fun, and in the case of dog ownership is also used as a pooping facility. A place for dogs to go, as it were. Coupled with the fact that within the city's public places and spaces there are enforced laws and codes regarding a dog's leavings, it makes for a relatively clean city when it comes to poo.

Not so for The Netherlands.

The Dutch are fond of their dogs. Upon observation here, it doesn't take long to recognize that fact. The Dutch like dogs and there are a lot of dogs here. A lot. Dogs who are loved and nurtured and walked and cuddled. Dogs who are romped with and fed well. Dogs who are adored. Dogs who poop and who are never, never, never, cleaned up after.

Yes, I am exaggerating. Never is the wrong word to use there, but it has so much impact I just had to leave it in. The truth is dogs in Holland are rarely cleaned up after.

This is a case though where less is still too much.

You have to walk carefully down the sidewalk here. More often than not there will be special warm package awaiting the sole of your boot as you stroll along. On my own street, at the same spot nearly every day, there is a happy pile of sunshine waiting to bless our senses with its presence. And our shoes with its mush.

It's not my favorite thing.

Not even close.

Indeed, we have learned to keep one eye on the ground as we walk and can over step or swiftly steer around the droppings on the footpath or on the streets with exceptional skill. At least those packages, large and small, left behind on the cobblestones are the ones you can readily see. Walking in the grass is an entirely separate issue. We have had to teach Andrew to cautiously approach the greenbelts and grassed in areas around the canals, as these are notoriously full of the stuff the dogs drop.

One fateful day last summer, Andrew and I took a walk to visit and feed the ducks near our house. As we have now come to expect, just as he stepped into the park, and just as I was calling out "watch where you step, baby !" he planted his foot directly in a pile of poo. The discovery of the badness upon his shoe was extremely disconcerting to his newly turned 3-year-old self and he turned to me and uttered the longest phrase he had yet assembled as he exclaimed "Mama! You gotta clean my shoe!". Then, as we hop-marched homeward, he chanted it over and again: "mama-you-gotta-clean-my-shoe-mama-you-gotta-clean-my-shoe-mama-you-gotta-clean-my-shoe!"

If this was the first time I heard him put together a phrase so long and eloquent, it wouldn't be the last. Alas, for the shoes and for our noses, his tiny sneakers are constantly sitting proudly on display in the front garden--'airing out'. Stepping in poop has become a constant pastime. It's not like he can help it. The poo is everywhere. E.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e.

I get so excited when I see a dog owner on a walk with his/her pooch holding onto a plastic bag, ready to scoop and toss any leavings the pup may deposit. Seriously, I feel so much thrill at this rare sighting, I want to throw my arms around the poop scooper and yell "thanks for saving my son's shoes!"

I haven't done it yet, but I just might.

Yeah, we got poop. Please come scoop. Or at the very least, take your turn scraping the shoes.

I am dialing the 800 number now.

I wonder how long until they get here?