Sonny and I Are Innocent!
I’ve just seen the film Marley and Me. I’ve still got slightly wet hair, as I cried so much. Very confusing marketing….but that’s beside the point. I do want to talk about dogs though, and as has been pointed out recently, it’s been a while since we had a Sonny the Black Menace themed post. Believe me, just like the writer of Marley and Me did in his weekly newspaper column, I could do a Sonny post every time. This post is on behalf of me and Sonny, two innocent bystanders in the evil world of dog poo.
Last night I had a conversation with a friend about the dog poo situation in my village, which I will name and shame- it’s Newmachar, Aberdeenshire. Hang your sorry head in shame, Newmachar! The streets are pebble-dashed with an enormous amount of dog poo. Really, it is quite spectacular. It would look like the entire village had gone back in time to the Seventies if it weren’t for the fact that the dog poo isn’t white….and there’s no “park porn” rustling in the bushes beside it.
I’ve just come back from taking Sonny for his afternoon walk/lark about, and in our 20 minute fun-filled walk in the biting North East cold, I counted 23 pieces of poo lying on verge, green, pavement and road. 23!!! Twenty-three!!!?
What makes the entire situation worse is that the singularly worst location for dog merde is the school road. It is as if someone is strategically placing them right outside the school gates as an elaborate sick joke against kids and the mothers who have to scrape the offence out of the tiny treads in school shoes. (Top tip, someone invent an implement for this very purpose- you’ll make a fortune).
A couple of things are clear to me:
- This is not the work of just one dog owner (notice I said “dog owner” and not “dog”)
- Since a great deal of it was on my street, people may assume that it is the work of me and the Black Menace. This upsets me as not one of Sonny’s little parcels have even been left to even go cold before being scooped into a bag and disposed of. Not once. And I’m a Girl Guide, so I don’t lie. But I feel the stares of non-dog owners as they tar us all with the same accusatory brush. Sonny may be called The Black Menace but, really, his crimes only extend to the culling of the kids’ toys* and the occasional bout of escapology.
So, what to do about it? My friend contacted the local council Dogshit Warden, they have a proper title like Dog Colonic Wastage Technician, but who are we kidding, Dogshit Warden is what they are. Nothing was done anyway, so quite what their duties are is unclear. They said they would “look into it”. Wow, what a strategy!
Since her abortive attempts at “going the official route” my friend has been keeping vigil in her kids bedroom, watching over the park space at night after a morning when she counted seven overnight deposits on her way to the school gates. She’s not quite sat on the Grassy Knoll with a rifle, but that’s only because she doesn’t want to roll in anything unsavoury on the aforementioned Knoll. She has yet to catch anyone. Now either we’ve got dingoes or someone is lobbing Fido’s offerings with a tennis racket over their back garden fence into the public arena.
Quite what my pal is going to do when she catches the perpetrator is unclear, but let’s just say she’s fairly handy and I don’t fancy their chances when she does.
The problem is that short of catching every offender and fining them, what can be done to stop this behaviour? Now, I’ve said before that I would gladly accept the responsibility of full police powers (and any accompanying anti-personnel devices on offer), and so would my friend, but no one seems to be taking this on board.
So what can be done? Do you have an answer (comical, useful, sadistic or otherwise)?
*You would know if it was Sonny’s poo, it would have a Polly Pocket limb or head in it, or a piece of Star Wars Lego.
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Double Dutch from A Real Double Dutchess
Whenever I go to any country, I try to find the product that has the best unknowing swear word/funny word as its name. It’s very childish, very Graham Norton, but I can’t help it and I don’t apologise for it.
In Finland it was the “Mega Pussi” giant bag of crisps. You could also get a “Mini Pussi” if you were less than starving/greedy. That’s going to take some beating.
I reckon that Holland is going to pay out in spades. It is the country that has the words “U kunt!” for “ I can!” It’s a flipping gold mine; it just must be!
So, my bloggie chums, I am going to make it a feature of every Dutch Blog that I include one unknowing naughty sign or product at the end.
To get us started I give you this:
Forget the apostrophe. It’s a bag of teddy poo!
The Misssy M Career casebook: Case No 1- Jurgen the German Maniac
When I was twenty I came back from a year’s study in Germany to stay with my parents for the summer. I was hoping for a doss, but I was informed immediately after alighting the train in Aberdeen that my Mum had found me a job. My folks’ next door neighbour Willi, a German bloke, needed a secretary to tide him over whilst his permanent secretary had extended leave for some reason. Damn!
I spoke reasonably fluent German and that seemed to be the clincher for him, as he often had German business contacts calling. The fact that I had no secretarial experience didn’t seem to bother him. Either that, or my Mum had lied about my credentials.
I was totally and utterly incompetent. I would routinely wipe the ansaphone messages without even listening to them, I couldn’t send a fax, he had a telex machine that to this day I don’t know what it was for, and I pretty much could be responsible for untold damage to his business. Ahh well…
Oddly, he ran his entire multinational empire from home- which was the house next to my parents’. His family used to live there, but had long since moved back to Germany (I think there were marital issues). He would go back and forth between Scotland and Germany, but more often than not I would be on my own. I honestly didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing. And as a result I was bored. A bored Misssy M is not a good thing. I don’t stay bored for long…
So once I had messed about in his house, snooping and minesweeping to capacity, I had pretty much nothing else to do. I worked out that his cordless phone would work from my mum’s living room, so when he wasn’t around I would get out of my bed at 9, hop across the fence in my jammies, pick up the phone, inadvertently wipe the answering machine messages and pop myself back home to watch shite on telly. Sometimes I even went back to sleep with the phone by my bed.
My life of sloth, overlooked incompetence and deceit soon came to an end when Willi phoned from Germany one day to announce the impending arrival of his mate, Jurgen. Jurgen would be working from the office alongside me. I should expect him on Wednesday. I was assured that I would like Jurgen. Over night my best mate and I speculated on how fit Jurgen might be. Hey, you never know….
Wednesday came and there was no sign of Jurgen.
Willi called, “Has Jurgen arrived?”
Cue much confusion on the part of Willi when I said I hadn’t seen him. Jurgen had apparently left the day before and should have arrived late on Tuesday night.
Thursday: still no sign.
Then an hour into Thursday’s shift I go to the fridge to get some milk for my first cup of tea of the day and I see evidence of someone. There’s a half salami with a human bite out of it! I look around me; there are quite a few empties strewn about the place. Jurgen war hier!
Later that day I begin to hear small grunting noises coming from upstairs. I sheepishly call up the stairs, “Hallo Jurgen? Bist’s Du?”
Nothing. Complete silence again.
I work my shift (ha!) and go home.
The next day I go back. I’m a couple of hours in when I hear swearing, grunting and general mayhem coming from upstairs. I call my mate Helen and she comes over within two minutes. We stand at the bottom of the stairs stifling nervous laughter. He is going mental. All of a sudden there is a loud crash. And then nothing.
After about five minutes worth of debate, we sneak up the stairs and open the door to the room from where we heard the mayhem.
Oh My God! The image I’m about to describe is burned on my brain.
There is a forty something little blonde moustachioed naked fat man on the floor. The room is overturned and HE IS COVERED IN HIS OWN CRAP.
Bizarrely there are also mountains of porno magazines strewn everywhere. And I mean hundreds. The room smells like Hell.
We hastily shut the door and phone Willi. It appears that Jurgen has split up from his girlfriend and this is the reason he has fled to Schottland. But Willi has no suggestions as to what I should do. I can’t even work a fax machine, how am I supposed to deal with a heartbroken, shit-covered, Teutonic, porn-obsessed dipsomaniac?
Willi suggests we leave him be and see how he is the next day. The next day he is worse. And he is now lying on his back and THAT bloody image is also now burned on my brain, thank you very much. So what to do?
“Hello Mum? We have a problem”
Upshot is that on Ma’s advice we phone an ambulance. Jurgen is led away and put into local Psychiatric Hospital for a wee holiday.
When he discharges himself a week later, there is no mention of anything, certainly no apology and infact the bastard even starts to order me about. He is really quite rude. The cheek of him!
“I’ve seen your wee shrivelled poo covered winkie, you ungrateful bastard!” I want to shout, but don’t (and not just because I can’t translate it into German fast enough).
I quit and get a job in the bar of the local hotel. At least the drunks there are shit and porn free and relatively civilised, I figure.
