Patti Soldavini

Posts Tagged ‘dog poop’

Reading Dogs Minds

In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 11/18/2012 at 7:21 pm

“Are you talkin’ about ME?”

At the local dog park the other afternoon, Andy, a dog park “regular,” turns to me and says “Hey. I think Olive is about to ‘go.’ I can tell by the look…” “YOU CAN TELL BY WHAT, THE LOOK ON HER ASS?” I say. Actually, you can tell by the look on Olive’s ass when she is getting ready to drop a lawn cigar. Her docked tail actually becomes a little more erect and she starts walking very fast but taking very tiny steps as she does it. Then, BOOM. She finds the magic spot and leaves a package. Which I then have to retrieve…like a dog. And I learned very quickly to pre-open the poop bags the minute we get to the park so I don’t have to struggle with them like the plastic bags at the grocery store. You know, the ones that take MINUTES to open after rubbing your thumb and index finger against them so hard and so long that you fear it will ignite in a ball of flames? This way, I can minimize the time I spend standing over the aromatic pile of freshly baked brownies Olive’s just served up.

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Zippety-Poop-Ah

In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 09/08/2012 at 4:04 pm

“My God, WHAT is that stink?”

Well, I warned everyone at the local dog park that I would be writing about this. It seems that Harry, the burnt copper-colored mixed breed dog prefers poop to people. When Harry gets to the park, he races into the field like a bottle rocket and proceeds to run  around the perimeter of the dog park. I’m not sure if he thinks he’s checking boundaries, or making a statement about his desire to put as much distance between him and all the humans in the park. He’ll play with other dogs, but if you’re human, you won’t get closer to him than a foot or two. He takes off in a blur before your hand ever touches his fur. And soon enough, we’ll see Harry rolling on his back over and over in the grass, kicking his paws up high like a Rockette. That’s because he’s struck gold. He found a nice pile of dog crap and is rubbing himself all over this exotic fragrance. I look over at Olive, who is standing near me watching this display. Even she’s not sure what to make of it. ‘”OLIVE. DON’T YOU EVER, EVER THINK OF DOING THAT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” As I emphasize the words “Ever, Ever,” her ears pivot back somewhat and flatten to the sides of her head. Her eyes are as big as saucers and I swear she looks slightly afraid. Harry circles back by the humans, and from about 12 feet away, you can see the poop caked on and smeared across his red collar (and yes, I am gagging as I write this). His owner then describes how the worst part is when they leave. Back in the car, Harry wants to nuzzle her as she’s driving. I’m actually giggling semi-uncontrollably as his owner is saying this. As I’m laughing, I’m thinking to myself, “Thank God, weimaraners as a breed don’t like to be dirty.” I look at Olive and with a straight face ask: “SO, OLIVE WOULD YOU LIKE A CRAP SANDWICH FOR DINNER OR CHICKEN?” She cocks her head sharply when I come to the word “chicken.” Smart dog.

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