Cowboy and I are obsessed with our dog’s poop. We have long, detailed discussions about whether or not Hopper “went” on the walks that day and what “it” looked like. This has become so normal that sometimes this will be our dinnertime discussion as we eat do-it-yourself-burritos. We discuss color and shape in terms of “runny,” “putty,” “soft-serve,” “human-like,” or, once, Cowboy came home describing another dog’s poop — which he found on our front step — as “picturesque” and then confessed to being jealous that someone else’s dog could make such a perfect poop.
Forget being outraged that some asshole had let his canine take a shit on our front step. He was jonesing, even competitive, for Hopper to make such a perfect doodie. Sometimes, after Hopper has been out in the yard in the evening, I’ll put on my Petzl headlamp and my big wellie boots and go out on poop patrol to inspect his poop (also to scoop it up into the trash).
Our obsession started when we first got Hopper. For the first few months he was allergic to everything. Everything made him shit runny, putty-ish yellow poops and we aspired to soft-serve. We pined after the neat folds, the comforting shape of Dairy Queen chocolate with sprinkles. And then we’d take Hopper out and the best he could do was runny. Sometimes his rear would seem to erupt with lightning as he farted and squirted watery yellow liquid, and we’d look for ways to clean it up with our Hannaford bag because we felt we should. Sometimes it was impossible. We started reading labels and found that Hopper can’t eat fish, beef, peanut butter, wheat, corn, or poultry — basically all he can eat is lamb and rice with a few vitamins thrown in. Finally we found the right brand that provided just this at a pretty penny, but it was so worth it. Suddenly Hoppy’s poops were brown and formed. It was a time for rejoicing! We were triumphant parents!
Then a couple of weeks ago I made the mistake of cooking Hopper’s food for three days when the pet store was out of the one brand he can eat and now he refuses to eat his normal food. He’ll only eat my concoction of rice and lentils and kale (boy after my own heart, loves kale), carrots, apples, applesauce, squash, garlic, flax seeds, and lamb. I know that this kind of gourmet dog eating is all the rage now, and I admit I don’t love the idea of feeding him nuggets from a bag, but sometimes whipping up the dog food is not the easiest thing. Sadly, my boy won’t eat anything else.
The thing is, though, his poops are perfect. They’re so huge I actually get excited. They’re formed and they slide out easily. They’re dark brown, and they’re, I dare say, “picturesque.” It’s pure ecstasy. I can’t wait to take Hopper for a walk so I can see his next poop!
The other day Hoppy and I were walking on the path by the East End beach and he stopped to take a poop. As I started cheerleading “Good boy, nice poop, such a good boy, Mommy loves you, I love your poops!” from somewhere in the shrubby overgrowth I heard the bushes speak: “What the fuck, lady? Get yourself a fuckin’ boyfriend, instead of some goddamn fucking dog, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, get a fuckin' kid, fuck . . .” Hopper looked up, his perfect poop mid-dangle and we both stared at the burning bush and he shook out his last bit and we scurried away. So much for thinking I’m privately telling Hopper how terrific his poops are. But, it makes him so proud! He feels so great when I tell him! He just beams and beams!
Now I’m just quieter because I know Hopper has those X-ray dog ears and can hear everything I say. So as he slides out his perfect kale-and-flax-seed wonders, I whisper, “Good boy, Hoppy, Mommy loves your perfect doodie!”
