I love my dog – I do. I really do. Ask anyone. My daughter gave him to me in 2006 for my birthday. She said my rear view was quite large enough and I needed something to get me off it. True enough. Charming girl.

But the other truth is, this poor little guy lived the first year of his life in a tiny cage on an obscure breeder’s farm because nobody wanted him – he wasn’t marked properly for a Sheltie/Shih Tzu (Note the lack of white patch on top of his head. Whatever.). And she couldn’t stand the thought of him being put down for no better reason than that. 

So Bud came to enliven my dull, sedentary life.

Our first walk was illuminating. He thought I knew what I was doing and I thought he would know what a leash was for.  Wrong on both counts.

Although he came with a collar and leash around his neck, I was later informed that the leash was for stomping on when I needed to catch the little rat bast – oh, sorry, forgot myself for a second there – but yes, this was handy information to have. 

We needed a Come-to-Lassie meeting. Immediately. Have you ever tried to house train a year-old semi-wild dog?

And maybe it’s a Shih Tzu thing, but I found he wasn’t all that impressed with going outside to do his business, either. What’s the point, really, when there are French doors, stair spindles, and the back of my leather recliner handily available, right? 

A purebred Shetland collie would never stoop to lifting a leg on a recliner.  I know this for a fact.

We needed a Come-to-Lassie meeting. Immediately. Have you ever tried to house train a year-old semi-wild dog?

Then there were the vet’s bills. I cheerfully (OK, I’m lying) coughed up the entire contents of my checking account and then some to ensure that Bud was properly up-to-date on his vaccinations for distemper, rabies, heartworm and other diseases that didn’t exist when I last owned a dog.

“That will be $364, ma’am.” My eyebrows rose so high that the bags under my eyes were almost invisible. I suddenly looked Oriental.

“We were in there for five minutes. How can five minutes cost $364?”  I asked. I think it was a valid question, don’t you?

They didn’t. 

Since that day five and a half years ago, they have been on a first name basis with my VISA card – it pops out of my wallet of its own volition, so happy to see them every time Bud vomits for no reason at all two or three times a year or it’s time for me to slice and can a well-chosen bit of poo for their annual laboratory tests.

I spent hours at Petco searching for the most nutritious dry kibble brands.  Bud refused each and every one of them, regardless of their fame, protein content, all natural ingredients, or tasty basting with beefy-tasting broth. He didn’t consider expense to be part of the equation. Neighbors and friends with less discriminating pooches were extremely grateful that first month until Bud finally explained the facts of life to me.

He insisted that Purina Little Bites are the best bang for the buck, especially when topped with a small container of Cesar Filet Mignon with Bacon and Potatoes, or any other flavor for that matter. 

He’s a nibbler. Four pounds of Little Bites lasts three months. I shrugged. Who am I to argue with that kind of logic?

And before you start thinking Bud’s a bargain basement dog, go get a price check on Cesar, and multiply that by 365 days a year. Then add in dried duck strips, rawhide twists, chicken-flavored pigs’ knuckles, and multitudinous stuffed squeaky toys to be disemboweled ...

I fed my family of four on far less in the '70s and I’m not kidding.

Back to walking . . .

Our first walks were of necessity very short – only two blocks – because that’s as far as I could make it without my inhaler and a vitamin B complex injection, not to mention thighs quivering like exhausted Jello. We walked at 4:30 a.m. because I didn’t own a GAP jogging outfit like every other dog walking woman in the 'hood.  It took 20 minutes to walk two blocks and back, mostly because Bud wrapped his leash around every tree, bush, and sign post along South 50^th Street. 

He lunged for every rabbit and ranged to the top of every rise to see what was on the other side. Occasionally, he would actually poop and I praised him as deliriously as any mother praises her child for exhibiting hitherto unknown talent.

Over time, we gradually increased our little predawn strolls to three miles in good weather. During the winter months, we plunge through snowdrifts higher than Bud is tall or skate on icy sidewalks, coming home hot and thirsty after a mere mile. 

Seven days a week, every week, every year – neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these intrepid explorers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds, give or take an occasional weekend visitor I can sweet talk into giving me a break. 

Bud has figured out what he’s supposed to accomplish on these walks and all is right with the world.

Here is my dilemma . . .

In West Des Moines, it’s de rigueur to pick up after your pooch – the law, even – or so I’ve been told, but please.

Bud has stopped to sniff enough huge piles in the grass to stamp a big “STUPID” smack in the middle of my forehead.  However, I still carry that black baggie with me at all times and I use it. I feel guilty when a car passes while we’re walking if I’m not swinging a loaded bag.

I’ve thought about unwrapping a couple of bite-sized Tootsie rolls and dropping them into the bag as a decoy, since that’s about all Bud produces anyway, and then I could have a chewy little snack while waiting for him to do his Doody Dance.

I haven’t done it yet – the thought of pulling dark chocolate rolls out of the same bag that will soon hold the real thing, well . . .

When we get home, I double bag and drop the doo into the garbage can in the garage. This works fine in fall, winter, and spring but every year there’s that special day when I pull into the garage, park my car, open the door, and practically lose my Happy Hour cocktail.

Yesterday was that day.

Have you ever toured a sauerkraut factory? Neither have I.  But that’s as close as I can come to explaining the impact of dog doo that has marinated for two days in heat indices over 100 degrees.

It’s only Wednesday and the garbage doesn’t get picked up until Friday noon.  Does everybody’s garage smell like this in the summer? Or am I supposed to be tossing these little warm pouches into a gallon zip-locked bag and stashing them in the freezer next to the peas and frozen pizza until garbage day?

I’m serious. What do you do with doo in the sweltering heat of summer?