27 October 2012
When I got home from the sawmill I opened the door and took off my boots. Not many things smell worse than a pair of old work boots on Friday. Your imagination has probably already filled in those blanks.
Put my lunch bucket where Sonja likes me to leave it and I opened a beer. I drank it, opened another one, filled up the Hammer's bowl with food and went outside. I was happy, my dog was happy, the rest of the world could fuck right off.
I grabbed the shovel, shoveled up a few piles of my dog's shit and put them in the shit bucket. There were a few leaves on the grass so I grabbed the rake and raked some up and with the help of a bare hand carried them over to my compost corner.
Everything was going good until I felt my fingers sink into something cold and wet. Cold and wet dog shit.
I had made it through life until this afternoon without sticking an unprotected hand into cold and wet dog shit. It was not that bad. At least cold and wet dog shit does not smell as bad as the hot and wet variety.
It still smells though.
Like a Liberal.