Walking the Dog (2)

Back home after another long day at Nuova Lazio High. Getting on with the Report writing, and only one class left to go.



It really was a beautiful evening. An evening for walking the dog. An evening of contemplating nature, this lovely country I live in, and Mrs. J****** in her bikini on the hill behind us, silhouetted against the evening sky.



I took the wee fella down to our front door and got prepared.

Steel toed elastic sided boots (paint covered and scarred from many an encounter with unforgiving concrete blocks)

Dress socks, pulled up to the calf (left over from school, I don't necessarily change ALL clothes when I get home)

Trusty Army shorts

Classic baggy grey T-Shirt two sizes too big from the Warehouse)

Old hat for protection from the sun . Even at 6:45 in the evening. I really don't want a melanoma on the scalp. I should add that my hat was given to me by my lovely daughter when she was over here on a visit 6 years ago. It's khaki-coloured canvas, has a stiff brim, a kiwi embroidered on it and a chin strap made from an old ex-Army leather bootlace. It's covered in blue stain splatter from the time I foolishly tried to spray-stain a previous house in Normandale when the Southerly was blowing. I ended up looking like a bewildered, aging Papa Smurf. I wouldn't swap that hat for anything.

Hip-flask with a generous measure of a proprietary blended whisky (Single Malt is just too pricey for every day consumption)

I checked the plastic poo-bag supply in its dispenser, and off we went.

Quick check for Mrs. J***** up the hill, but she must have gone indoors. Blast.


I did what I normally did on these perambulations. Either planning my next day's work at school, or my next post on the blog worlds. I kept an eye on Samo of course, as he went sniffing around trees, bushes and mailboxes. (I should add for any Non-Kiwi readers that New Zealand uses a system similar to the US, where household mailboxes are situated at the end of each house's driveway, and the mail is delivered to them. The idea of the UK system where the mail is delivered directly to your front door is laughable, when many driveways are hundreds of metres long)

Kiwi Mailbox

Uh oh. First signs of poo-making from the wee doggie. (I had made absolutely sure that the wee thing hadn't been eating any Melons. Or any sort of fruit. See the previous post on Walking the Dog which explains my nervousness regarding dogs and melons)

The little crap-machine started the usual snuffling in a single area, eyes began to glaze, legs straddled and *pop* out it came. I did the usual dog-owner thing here, and looked nonchalantly away. It's not really thought to be polite to stare at your dog's arse as it defecates. Look at the sky. Whistle. Look vainly again for any sign of Mrs. J****** on the hill. Take a plastic bag out of the dispenser and get it ready for use. This allows any observers (nosey-parkers) to note that you are a good dog-walker, one who is prepared to pick up the poo. Open the bag. Damn these things are so tightly compressed I couldn't get it open. Quick lick of fingers to increase fingertip coefficient of friction and it's open. Wrap ostentatiously around free hand (other hand firmly grasping doggie's lead)



Doggie's finished. Quick grasp of the still-warm pellets. A practiced twist and tie, and the jobs done.



Back to the perambulations and bush sniffing (the dog, not me). Mrs J***** still not out yet. Blast. Going to take another swig from the flask, but stopped. I vividly remember the last time I had taken a swig after picking up the poo. Somehow a trace of the material had got onto my fingers and the taste transferred to the neck of the hip flask and hence to my lips. The combination of tastes is not one I ever wish to repeat. It put me off whisky for hours. Returned unopened and un-drunk flask to capacious pockets in my trusty shorts.

Back to perambulations, wee doggie having a great time sniffing and snuffling everything in sight (or in his case, smell)
Uh-oh. Pre-crap signs again. I sent up a fervent prayer to any Deity which might be(against all rational thought) floating around for a non-repeat of the Lentil Soup effect (See Walking the Dog)

Phew. Just normal pellets. No reason to panic. Back to my established doggie-poo routine.

Look at the sky. Whistle. Look vainly again for any sign of Mrs. J****** on the hill. Take a plastic bag out of the dispenser and get it ready for use. Open the bag. Damn these things are so tightly compressed I couldn't get it open. Quick lick of fingers to increase fingertip..... Oh shit.

Really. Oh SHIT. There must have been a minuscule transfer of material after the last poo-wrapping. Onto my fingers. And I'd just licked them.

Have you any idea what dog shit tastes like?

Believe me you really don't want to know. The last episode with the hip flask contamination was nothing compared to this.

The only comparison I can make was when my son was still a baby, and when I took over nappy duties one evening the little sod blew an explosive fart/diarrhoea mix over me as I attempted to apply cream to his tiny reddened bum. The experience of having the semi-liquid crap drip off of my moustache is not one to be repeated.


I made the ultimate sacrifice. I used the whisky remaining in my hip flask to rinse out my moth and lips. AND I HAD TO SPIT IT OUT. Do you have any idea how such behaviour corrupts a Scotsman's soul?
Started home, retching slightly (Actually dry boaking. But all of you Sassenachs wouldn't understand)

I left his last deposit where it lay. I'd get it later.
Thank goodness; Mrs J******* had come out at last. Looking at her in the sunlight certainly took my mind of my troubles. (But not the taste. Never the taste)

Mrs. J******
See Nicola, Fflur, Pinky and AliX.  No more semi-naked pretty girls