The Politics of Dog Poop and Ownership

I began the day wiping shit off my shoe. No, not metaphorically — literally. An older woman and her cute mid-sized dog walked towards me as I tried to do the work required to prevent backtracking my morning.

Shit everywhere.

It’s now steaming in the sun as it devours the grassy deposits and the gleaming sidewalks.

It’s in the air.

Nobody says what they mean or mean what they say. The casual delivery of words like rape, abuse, diversity, racism, sexism, feminism, terrorism, fascism, etc, have all converged to produce a pile of poop that no dog could muster.

The heat and the flies know no bounds as I try to pretend that this shit doesn’t stink.

It does.

Here I am dressed for an occasion that will supposedly save my life. I truly need to be rescued and this dollop of poop that is encrusted in the winding scars that are sealed at the back of my shoe — might just the antidote to relieve me from frequent constipation.

The universe crap that many of you refer to when you need reassurance that the journey ahead was ordained is also shit. The universe doesn’t give a crap about your weary decision process. It gives you a place here for temporary reasons and then discards you when you die.

I rub my harassed heel against the grass that hasn’t be spoilt by the merciless offloading of the stuff that dog owners refuse to take ownership of.

I get it. I really do. I’m no better.

I talk shit all the time but when action is on the horizon — I fade into faint expectations.

Like politicians who promise the world when the world is listening. Like social media stars who mobilize their fans with encouragement that feeds the beast of self-absorption. Like the way instituted bigotry allows White people to do bad things and allots the death sentence to Black people for doing nothing at all.

Like this meeting that requires me not to smell like shit so I can join the workforce as the puppet I once was even though I can do better. But, won’t.

My shoe is almost new but the stench is still slightly noticeable. I don’t care. I can manage the humiliation of walking in and walking out as the victim of a misstep.

I own my shit. Do you?

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