It's So Utterly Stupid: Stepping in Dog Shit

Life is full of those unexpected setbacks. Not just large scale tragedies or events, but rather, the smaller, less dangerous, not quite terrifying annoyances, which are capable of transforming a mood from good, to disastrous.

One such experience I seem to be unable to avoid is the act of stepping in dog shit when I get out of my car.

You see, I'm a street parker: a breed of urban driver that can muster up enough rent to live in the city, but absolutely, and under no circumstances, ever has enough money or self-love to pay for an expensive parking spot.

So part of this is my fault for not having the resources to remove this obstacle from my life.

As a street parker, I find whatever spot I can to survive, to park, and drive another day. Most people on my road don't take their car to work, they take public transportation.

Just so happens the easiest spots to find are on the left side of my road, where, if you don't look down before exiting the car, there may be a nice surprise waiting to bond itself to the deepest cracks of your shoes. I've done this several times.

The radio is cranked. I'm rolling my windows up, turn the car off, open the door, completely oblivious to what's coming. Boom. I've stepped in it. Hopefully, it's just one shoe. Let's hope.

Have I noticed yet? No, of course not. If I had noticed I would then be able to prevent myself from tracking it throughout the apartment, of which, is entirely covered by carpet. So no. This dog shit on my shoe has not been noticed.

And in fact, it's not just any dog shit. It's that super impressive extra warm right out of the microwave no wonder the shitty dog owner didn't pick it up type of dog shit. You know the kind.

 Courtesy of

Courtesy of

If I had been a better person, a kinder, gentler type person, maybe that dog shit would have simply been a three-day-old pellet that crumbles at only the slightest touch. But no, Karma has made herself very clear, and although I'm not sure which specific incident this is in retaliation to, it doesn't even really seem to matter.

In my experience, the moment of true heartbreak reveals itself just after you've managed to walk through, at the very least, two-thirds of the carpet area. Then, and only then, will you start smelling something that tells you everything is not okay.

Not only is it not okay but you will never know the person who did this to you. You have made an invisible enemy. Someone who cares not about your feelings, state of mind, and especially not your stupid carpet. Let me tell you this.

There is nothing worse than cleaning up carpet poop in a full blown state of rage. When all you want to do is stick your head through a wall the last thing you feel like doing is Googling how white vinegar is actually a really great way to get shit out of the carpet.

Which it is, actually.  

There's also nothing like wondering if your shoes, although cleaned, brushed, soaked, boiled, and held gently over an Apple Pie Yankee Candle for three hours, still, to someone, smell like shit.

Throw away the towels used for cleaning. Be thankful you had white vinegar in your pantry. And most of all, above anything else, always keep one eye on the ground and other tracking dog owners with a suspicious shifty glance.

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