Thursday, November 16, 2006

Pity Poop

I think I mentioned before--once or 300 times--that we were having the yard transformed from the hard-packed nutrient-free rock-and-weed-studded mess it was when we moved in. After carting in a couple of tons of dirt, leveling the ground, constructing rock walls, planting trees and shrubs and flowers, and installing irrigation, the transformation is complete. Well, the first phase, anyway--we decided to hold back a little of the budget for the occasional trip to In-n-Out.

Late last week, I was finally able to let the girls play out back while I lovingly raked the #$*&ing leaves from the velvety, emerald expanse of new lawn and uprooted the weeds that were already threatening to take over the new beds. They loved it (girls, not weeds), giggling madly as they ran and rolled on the grass, happy not to have anyone telling them not to pick the flowers (I was biting my tongue) or throw the mulch (more tongue biting). Argus was still not allowed out--when he gets excited, he gallops and I wasn't prepared to see divots the size of those I leave on golf courses.

(Right about now, I bet you're wondering when we get to the pity poop.) Because Argus is not allowed in the yard, he's getting at least two, sometimes three walk a day--something he hasn't had since about mid-way through my pregnancy with Charlotte. I know, I know. Poor guy. But now he's so excited about the walks that he won't finish his breakfast or dinner, instead prancing at the door, whimpering to go out. So out we go.

Now, when Argus is sent out to the back yard, he's usually pretty quick about finding a spot and taking care of business. But when we go out, he will walk for miles looking for just the right spot. And of course, there are the trees that must be greeted. Every. Single. One. And since Thomas was away last week, I had to load the girls into the stroller and take them out, too (normally the post-dinner poop is just Argus and either Thomas or me). It was dark, well past their bedtime; Charlotte started sniffling, Hannah started whining. And every time we stopped, I practically begged Argus to get on with it, already.

After a few blocks of this, he stopped, gave me a disgusted look and a heavy sigh, squatted and looked away. And there it was--the tiniest poop a Great Dane every offered up. It was a pity poop, just to get the three complaining women off his back. He looked so disgusted with us that I had to laugh. Which was not appreciated. When we got home, he went straight to his bed and, with what sounded remarkably like a "harrumph," put his nose in the corner and ignored me for the rest of the evening.

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