The children have been very busy of late in their rooms and also seem to have developed a surprising new interest in outside walks. They ventured forth every afternoon during the holidays, trudging down the road to the park and back many times over. I should have been suspicious I suppose, given my own predilection for practical jokes, since they always set out armed with a large carrier bag and pens. But I was pleased they were getting out in the fresh air, fondly imagining them producing little sketches of the local flora and fauna.
We live within easy walking distance of the city but it is a surprisingly quiet place, surrounded by pleasant parks and woods, with an almost rural feel to it. It sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? And in most respects it is. We do, however, have one problem. And that problem is with dog turds.
Our road is a veritable obstacle course of dog poo – big sludgy ones strangely green in hue, little pelletty things, squished ones, smeared ones imprinted with the mark of a shoe, ball-like things, sausage ones – picture any colour or shape and you will find it lurking beneath a tree or on the path or even in our front garden. Making your way along our road is like completing some kind of trim-track – you dodge from one side to the next and then back again, but then there’s a bank of poo and oooh you have to jump, quick step to the side again, and just when you think you’ve made it, one leaps out and accosts you on your very own drive. We all moan about this, we all slip and slide in them and tread them into the house, some of us write to the City Council about them but none of us have ever done anything about them. Until now.
Yesterday when I arrived home there was a strange little flag at the end of our drive. I got out of the car and stooped to inspect the little blue flag. I recoiled in horror when I saw what the little flag was stuck into – a well-formed dog turd with a fine pungent aroma.
“Fido, No.7 Madeleine Road” the little flag proclaimed bravely in a handwriting that looked worryingly familiar.
I didn’t like to remove the flag from its little base but I hastened into the house, in search of my three sons.
“What’s that thing at the end of our drive?” I asked keenly.
“Dog poo,” my eldest said innocently.
“Well, yes but the flag?” I perservered impatiently.
“Come for a walk and we’ll show you,” my youngest son said , grabbing my hand and positively dragging me towards the door.
So out we went for a lovely stroll down the road in the early evening mist. All along the road and around the trees there were little flags, each embedded in poo in various stages of decay. Each flag was carefully labelled, with the name of the doggy and the address at which it lived!
I was impressed and intrigued as to how they had managed this feat.
“How did you know which dogs had done which?” I asked in admiration.
“We’ve been following them for weeks,” the eldest said a little uncertainly, probably wondering if I might be cross. “If we see them do one and we don’t know the name of the dog, one of us goes up to the owner and makes a fuss of the dog and asks, then we follow them home later to see the address.”
“We can recognise them now,” the middle son continued with enthusiasm. “The poos, I mean. It’s funny because the big dogs don’t always do big ones, there’s this little terrier and he does these whopping ones and . . .”
I stopped him before he could continue with any further details as I was beginning to feel a little queasy.
And that evening we all sat in the lounge, suppers on the window sill and watched as people walked along the road and stopped to look at the little flags. Those with dogs behaved very strangely, looking furtively from side to side, some of them grabbing the flags up from their bases and stuffing them into their pockets (urghh!). Others just hurried on their way.
Will they be shamed into using the pooper scoopers and bins do you think? I doubt it. But I’m proud of the boys and their ingenuity. Three cheers for Poo Sticks!