This is “Blog” my black dog, and he’s very well-behaved but oh what a strange world he lives in!
Over the Christmas period I went ‘gongoozling’, as is my wont, along the Shropshire Union Canal, and was reminded of a story my old mate Alfie told me about a man whose job it is to spray dog-shit bright orange.
Apparently, this is a problem down the cut that badly needs addressing. So along goes your man with his spray-paint and with a deft squirt he turns the brown piles into luminous orange in order to shame the owner who allows his canine to dump inconsiderately where human foot dares to tread.
Alfie will have written at length and brilliantly about this I’m sure, but I borrow it here to illustrate a couple of points, which are a) the world in 2018 is more bonkers than ever, and b) I’ve finally decided after much deliberation that I won’t be getting a dog… or at least a real one.
I’ve recorded my doggy dilemma in previous posts but will add here that the issue of faeces is a major factor in my ultimate decision. I’ve looked after my friends’ dogs and seen with my own eyes the massive volume of dung the buggers produce and expect a man and his shovel to follow in their malodorous wake. Given that there’s a man who goes a stage further by painting it orange, I ponder that if I’d done the same, how would my friends feel on returning from holiday to find their considerable garden glowing not with chrysanthemums or primula but with several lines of shit that glowed in the dark like an airport runway?
But returning to the towpath, Alfie explained he’d asked the poo-painter for provenance of his toil and he’d staunchly defended the practice, insisting it’d shamed the owners and he’d seen a 50% reduction in offending turds.
All very well I suppose, but I wonder if an even better deterrent would be to spray the dog-handler himself so every time we ramblers see a man glowing bright orange we could denounce him as the careless sod who lets his dog shit everywhere and we hope he now “faeces up” to his environmental responsibility.
Furthermore, I feel a little sorry for the dogs returning to the scene of their crime and staring in canine bafflement at what’s been produced and wondering what the hell they’ve been fed on! Cheesy Wotsits could possibly spring to mind if dogs know what Cheesy Wotsits are. I related this tale to Mandy and a couple of friends at a recent soiree to discuss our imminent school reunion (which I’ll undoubtedly blog about soon) and they were agape, wanting to know how long the poo-painter had been in the job. “I’m not certain,” I said, “but I think this is his turd year.”
But enough of this nonsense. I only wanted to say a few words today to repeat a heartfelt message to my readers, all of whom are important to me, that I will continue to blog. This is partly because I enjoy it so much – the venting of one’s spleen is often an effective way of banishing the dog – and partly because many of you have said how much you’ve missed these pontificating scribblings. In other words it’s become not just a literary crusade for or against all the things I see in the world, but a response to encouraging noises off.
Yours until the next point of interest or utter bonkersness,