Not A Reenactment of The Icy Parking Lot
Typist: Bethany
The day that cleaning up my dogs poop almost killed me was one of those pet friendly adventure days of the highest highs and the lowest lows. Literally. I was high in the mountains of Cascadia and took a dozen or so rides on a ski lift. Then I was laid out in the parking lot on top of where I had just picked up after my dog. The parking lot that day was a thick sheet of ice dotted like Swiss cheese with potholes of slushy, smelly mud puddles. When we arrived at the ski resort, I quickly but carefully shuffled the dogs across the dangerous frozen muck so they could play in some of the lovely, freshly fallen snow the mountain had to offer. Cascade mountain peaks jutted into the sapphire blue sky 360 degrees around the dogs and I. The white, glittery trees weighted with snow sparkled like friendly ghosts in the late morning sunshine and the dogs blazed furry trails through snow drifts often higher than them. Well, especially higher than dachshund Wilhelm. Once all three dogs seemed content, we braved our way back across the dirty ice rink parking lot with a quick stop at the dumpster so I could dispose of the journey's full, blue plastic bags of dog poop. I settled the dogs safely in for a few hours of car rest while I did some downhill skiing.
It was a glorious day for skiing! I was so happy on the slopes but eventually it was time for lunch and to give the dogs another chance to also enjoy the mid-winter snow. I dined with the dogs and had my fill of ski replacing calories before leashing them up to again brave the harder than concrete, more slippery than an oil slick parking lot. We warily made it safe and sound to the glistening, deeply drifted fresh snow trails where Wilhelm, Brychwyn, and Huxley could safely sniff, romp, and wrestle. Once all three dogs had long tongues dangling joyfully from their heavy fog producing mouths in the cold mountain air, and my hardy lunch felt like it had done enough digesting for me to comfortably get more fantastically smooth ski runs in, the dogs and I turned back towards the dangerous drudgery that was the parking lot. The dumpster and the car were within view as we carefully crossed the slippery void when little dachshund Wilhelm began his "I have to poop" sniffing circles at the end of his leash. As Wilhelm squatted, I removed the glove from my right hand, tucked it firmly under my left arm, and ripped a poop bag from my roll.
The day that cleaning up my dogs poop almost killed me was one of those pet friendly adventure days of the highest highs and the lowest lows. Literally. I was high in the mountains of Cascadia and took a dozen or so rides on a ski lift. Then I was laid out in the parking lot on top of where I had just picked up after my dog. The parking lot that day was a thick sheet of ice dotted like Swiss cheese with potholes of slushy, smelly mud puddles. When we arrived at the ski resort, I quickly but carefully shuffled the dogs across the dangerous frozen muck so they could play in some of the lovely, freshly fallen snow the mountain had to offer. Cascade mountain peaks jutted into the sapphire blue sky 360 degrees around the dogs and I. The white, glittery trees weighted with snow sparkled like friendly ghosts in the late morning sunshine and the dogs blazed furry trails through snow drifts often higher than them. Well, especially higher than dachshund Wilhelm. Once all three dogs seemed content, we braved our way back across the dirty ice rink parking lot with a quick stop at the dumpster so I could dispose of the journey's full, blue plastic bags of dog poop. I settled the dogs safely in for a few hours of car rest while I did some downhill skiing.
It was a glorious day for skiing! I was so happy on the slopes but eventually it was time for lunch and to give the dogs another chance to also enjoy the mid-winter snow. I dined with the dogs and had my fill of ski replacing calories before leashing them up to again brave the harder than concrete, more slippery than an oil slick parking lot. We warily made it safe and sound to the glistening, deeply drifted fresh snow trails where Wilhelm, Brychwyn, and Huxley could safely sniff, romp, and wrestle. Once all three dogs had long tongues dangling joyfully from their heavy fog producing mouths in the cold mountain air, and my hardy lunch felt like it had done enough digesting for me to comfortably get more fantastically smooth ski runs in, the dogs and I turned back towards the dangerous drudgery that was the parking lot. The dumpster and the car were within view as we carefully crossed the slippery void when little dachshund Wilhelm began his "I have to poop" sniffing circles at the end of his leash. As Wilhelm squatted, I removed the glove from my right hand, tucked it firmly under my left arm, and ripped a poop bag from my roll.
A reenactment of poop bag break.
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A reenactment of the last thing I saw...
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My next, obvious move began the chain of events that lead to my near death dog poop scooping experience. It began with my hand going right through the bottom of the poop bag. Now, I had other poop bags with me, but really? This never happens! And my hand was already cold. I looked at the tiny pile of miniature dachshund poop and decided to fold the dog poop delicately into the torn bag and place it carefully, contamination free, into my left glove. I glanced towards the near-by dumpster. It was less than one hundred yards away. I could make it! I was wrong. The last thing I remember seeing was that precariously not-contained-in-a-tightly-tied-bag in my gloved hand. My next step was a doozy.
A dog in the snow; what could be better?
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I thudded down onto the ice on my left side, clutching that unsecured dog poop tightly in my left glove. At first, I thought the horrible crunching sound I heard when I slammed onto the freeze was my arm breaking. I believed I had landed on my elbow. Before the dogs could begin leaping on me as if we were beginning an icy parking lot playtime, I don't know how, but I scrambled to my feet, my left arm, right glove, elbow and poop gripping hand tucked tightly at my side. Ouch. It was hard to breath. I mumbled to myself "I am going to be okay." One of the things I love about taking the dogs everywhere is I can talk to myself and people within ear shot think I am talking to the dogs. I muttered "I am going to be okay" again, this time stepping ever so much more slowly and carefully towards the dumpster.
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I was not going to let an iced over parking lot and the sound of broken bones echoing through my head stop me from properly disposing of this poop! What seemed like twenty hours and four hundred miles of walking later, but was in actuality was only a few minutes and a dozen steps, I confronted the dumpster. Still afraid to move what I thought was my broken left arm, I gently pried the formed blue plastic crumpled poop bag from my left glove with my still bare right hand. I vaguely remember asking the dogs not to get to near the stinky dumpster as I cracked it open and disposed of Wilhelm's poop. Turning my gaze on my next goal, the car, is an injured shock blur but I do remember exclaiming, "See! I'm okay!" to the dogs, of course. After all, the poop had been scooped and properly disposed of. What is more okay than that? Walking back to the car as if across shards of glass with bare feet, I wiggled my left hand, moved my left arm slowly and discovered that it was fine. Upon getting the dogs back into the car and sitting gently with them under the open back hatch, I braved moving my arm enough to decide that my shoulder may be injured but it was not broken either. Struggling to breath while examining my left arm movement, I remembered that same feeling from another fall I had a few years ago. A fall that, among other things, caused a few cracked ribs. Ah-ha! Honestly relieved that my arm, wrist, and shoulder seemed fine, but beginning to worry about the life threatening complexities of broken ribs, I remembered, at least I had scooped that poop. It was too bad that the days skiing was obviously done. The highest of highs was behind me except for a decent back to Seattle's sea level. But the lowest lows of the day had been worth it. These mountains are too beautiful to have left dog poop laying around!
Not a reenactment of the end of the beautiful mountain day that picking up dog poop almost killed me.
My broken and separated, front and back, ribs from my fall that day are healing slowly, but I am impatient about these kinds of things. Thank you to my family, friends, readers, and followers who have wished me well and helped me care for five pets while recovering. I am truly thankful to "the poop grip," as it has come to be known, for preventing me from breaking my wrist, arm, or shoulder! I have discovered yet another reason that constantly cleaning up after my dogs, no matter what, without fail, is always the right thing to do.
Have you ever risked your life to do the right thing, cleaning up dog poop or otherwise?
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