Wednesday, April 30, 2008


This blog post is addressed to the old bat who lives round the corner from me.

Last week you had a go at me for not picking up a tiny bit of dog poo from the gutter, when my bloody greyhound had the shits and I'd run out of plastic bags. I apologised profusely, and asked if you had a plastic bag I could use. You gave me a dirty look instead, and those aren't much use, so I couldn't do anything but walk on.

Today, you see me walking Indigo, and watch me from halfway down the street (in the rain) while I pick up his poop. Yes, see, I pick up after my dog. And then I put the securely tied bag in the nearest bin. Which happens to be a wheelie bin, and not a dog-poo bin, because guess what - there are no fucking dog poo bins. The lady who lives in this house has a dog, she's seen me use her bin before, and she doesn't have a problem. You, old bat, do not need to wait until I'm walking past and shout at me. Would you like me to leave it in the street? Would you? I'd rather put his shit in a poo bin, but there isn't one. Nor do I have a wheelie bin of my own to put it in. Any bin will do at this point. It's a rubbish bin. No-one is going to be eating their dinner out of it. Now fuck off. Before I train Indigo to shit on your doorstep.

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