“Kobe took a huge crap in our bedroom,” Bobby announced when I called to let him know I was leaving work.
“Jesus, again? I wonder what’s wrong with him.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” I sensed something was off in Bobby’s tone. Something he wasn’t saying.
Hesitantly, I asked, “You did pick it up, right?” Although Bobby got home and found the poop first, this wasn’t the only this had happened and Kobe is technically not his dog. As much as Bobby may love me, love does not automatically equal I Am Willingly To Handle Your Animal’s Poop Frequently.
He hadn’t picked it up. I told him that I couldn’t believe he’d left a nasty pile of crap on the floor and that it was going to make the whole place smell. His response was that the poop was cold, which meant that it had been there for a while and was therefore fine staying where it was. FINE STAYING WHERE IT WAS. Who thinks like that? But that wasn’t my bigger concern.
“How do you know it was cold if you didn’t pick it up? Did you just touch it and then walk away?”
“I picked up part of it,” he explained defensively. “There were two piles right next to each other and I picked up the smaller one.”
“And you couldn’t have picked up the other one while you were at it? You just decided to leave it there?”
“I got sidetracked! I was in a hurry and I forgot!”
How do you get sidetracked while picking up poop? It’s not like you scoop up half a turd, walk away, and think, “That reminds me. I’m in the mood for some chili.” When I pick up shit, I can’t think about anything else until I’ve disposed of the mess and washed my hands thoroughly. I certainly don’t wander from the pile towards the trash, but then stop at the couch and decide to read the latest Bicycling magazine instead. That’s just weird, not to mention unsanitary.
So it turns out that Bobby was in a rush because he was going biking, and in the end he cut the ride short to go home and pick up the rest of the poop. And I appreciate that, I really do, but next time maybe he could just pick up the whole mess the first time around.