If you have never seen a Presa Canario up close you have to imagine a dog the size of a small Shetland pony. They are large and impressive. As in fact are their poos.
Believe me, I know. I pick up enough of the damn stuff to open a fertilizer factory.
Now, Tito’s poo is one thing (as any parent can tell you, your own baby’s nappy is sweet-smelling compared to the toxic production of any other infant) but I draw the line at scooping up the poop of my neighbour’s presa – even if that dog is Tito’s brother and therefore some sort of distant four-legged relation.
I caught Orco pooing in my garden the other day. He was running about without a lead on, came to our door to have a good old nosey through the metal gate, which had both Tito and Skye going mental. Daft Tito was leaping about happily while Skye wanted to murder the interloper. In the melee, Tito’s ball rolled out the gate and Orco went to make off with it. As I went out to retrieve the ball (damn those dogs have me well trained!), Orco waltzed into the garden patch and left the most humungous jobbie. I was not impressed. Well, I was, I suppose, but there was no way I was cleaning that thing up.
I stamped round to Orco’s Dad’s house which is next-door-but-one and shouted up the stairs about the kaka in mi jardin (that’s not one you’ll find in the Sugar Sachet Spanish by the way) and he nodded and muttered that he’d clean it up.
Well the mountain of poo had gone by the next day and I thought no more about it. When I next saw the neighbour he passed me by quickly without saying hello and I thought that a bit churlish. I mean, your dog poo’d, you cleaned it up, get over it, you know? But anyway, I thought that was the last of it until in the middle of a Spanglish blether with my very-next-door neighbour, she admitted she’d seen the Orco incident and heard me complain to Mr. Next-Door-But-One. He hadn’t picked up the poo by the next day. So she did. Then she threw it on his stairs!
Do you think she attached a note saying from whence this bomb originated? Aaaah. No.
So now I am mortified! Mr. Next-Door-But-One thinks I slung poo on his stairs. I don’t know what to do. Should I pretend it never happen and be forever branded a kaka-slinging crackpot or should I land Mrs Very-Next-Door in the shit?
Post a link to this blog to the kaka-insulted neighbour and in future, send Tito out after his own balls!
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