Can’t Face the Mess: Why I Avoid Picking Up Dog Poop in Public

Okay, let’s be real for a sec. We all adore our furry companions, right? Those wagging tails and sloppy kisses, they melt our hearts. But here’s the thing, the unglamorous truth: picking up dog poop in public? Nope, not my forte. It’s a whole thing, and yeah, I’m kinda bad at it. I’ll explain why, it’s less about laziness and more about… well, a whole cocktail of awkwardness and maybe a dash of mild phobia. Let’s dive deep into the doggie doo-doo dilemma.

The Public Spectacle

It’s not about not caring; it’s about not wanting an audience. Seriously, think about it. There you are, squatting like a crane, poop bag in hand, trying to maneuver around the, ahem, “product,” while simultaneously attempting to maintain some semblance of dignity. And that’s when the parade starts. People start strolling by, and their eyes? They are glued on you, scrutinizing your every move. It’s like suddenly you’re the star of a reality show nobody asked for, titled “The Poop Pickup Fiasco.”

I swear, they’re judging me. They’re thinking, “Look at that person, fumbling with that bag!” or worse, “Are they even going to pick that up?” The pressure is immense! It’s like being under a spotlight, only it’s a really stinky spotlight. It’s not just the judgment; it’s also the possibility of judgment. I start overthinking everything. Am I doing this right? Am I going to get some on my hands? Does everyone think I am totally inept? The whole process just feels exposed and I feel like a total awkward mess. The mental acrobatics needed to navigate this simple task? Exhausting. I might be overthinking it, but this is my truth. For me, public poop duty turns into a full-blown social anxiety episode.

The Sensory Overload

Okay, so the audience is bad enough, but let’s not forget the actual, physical act itself. The smell, the texture, the whole idea of it, sends shivers down my spine. Some may say I’m being dramatic but bear with me. It’s not that I am completely devoid of a sense of responsibility, but there’s something about the intimacy of it all that gets to me. You’re there, bag in hand, and you have to…well, you know. It’s a sensory experience that I’d rather avoid.

Sometimes the stuff isn’t even solid, and that, my friends, is when it crosses over into true terror. I’m sure that there’s a special place in doggy hell for owners that don’t pick up their pet’s watery messes, but me? I’m just not equipped for that level of… grossness. The act of scooping and securing the waste always leaves me feeling slightly nauseous. Even with the bag there is this weird lingering smell that seems to defy any attempts of masking and my hand feels phantom-like covered, even though it’s safe and sound within a plastic barrier. I know, I know, this sounds weak, but it’s a genuine, internal struggle. And trust me, I try. I bring extra bags, gloves, everything, hoping that the preparation will somehow make the experience less traumatic, but the second I get to the “moment of truth,” it’s like my brain short-circuits.

The Fear of The Unexpected

But wait, there’s more! The fear isn’t just about the poo itself; it’s about what it represents: the unknown. Will the bag break? Will my hand slip? Will that one, tiny, little speck of something manage to escape and soil my fingers? The anxiety is amplified a thousandfold, especially if it is the type that is really hard to grab. It’s like a miniature version of “Final Destination” except, instead of a freak accident, it’s a poop catastrophe.

There’s a weird sense of vulnerability too. When you are knee-deep in poop duty, you’re distracted, focused on the task at hand. This means that you are not in your most alert state, and the potential for something embarrassing happening increases exponentially. Like, I could trip over a crack in the sidewalk, or my pants could split. It’s just a disaster waiting to happen, and my anxiety has the popcorn ready for the show. It’s about control. Or rather, the lack thereof. I prefer my dog walks to be relatively risk-free adventures. Picking up poop just throws a wrench in my peaceful dog-owner fantasies.

So, yeah, I am that person. The one that tries to get away with it. I don’t mean to, of course. I usually try to get someone else to do it for me. If I’m with friends, I might “helpfully” direct them on how to do it. If I am alone, I will try to do it when no one is around to witness my embarrassment. Am I an awful person? Maybe. Am I working to become better at this? Yes. Will it be easy? Absolutely not. It is just something I have to accept, that is, that sometimes the only way to avoid the mess is by passing the buck. It’s not ideal, but it’s my reality, at least for now. Hopefully, I’ll get better at it. Maybe one day, I will be able to face the mess and feel like a normal, responsible dog owner, and not a traumatized mess.