There can only be one thing going on here: Ghost dogs. Ghost dogs that eat a ridiculous amount of greasy food.
I say this because I actually have a live, regular dog (puppy, actually) named Chewie whom I pick up after on a daily (sometimes semi-daily) basis. He’s a giant breed, so trust me when I say I know his handiwork. And what I find in my yard, more often than not, is not his brand.
Not. his. brand, I tell you.
That is all.
UPDATED: WAIT. NO, IT’S REALLY NOT.
I took Chewie on a walk today, and as usual, he emptied out in our back yard before we set out to tour the neighborhood.
But, as luck would have it, he sniffed out a happening spot in our across-the-street neighbor’s yard and was overcome by an urge to contribute. So he hunkered down and piled on, as it were. Others had obviously gone before him and left their, er, donations. The work of the ghost dogs.
It took all of 3 seconds, but neighbor (I’ll call her Kiki) must have been watching like a fricking hawk from her window because Chewie had just barely straightened up when I hear:
Me: Hi, sorry about that.
K: You wouldn’t happen to have a plastic bag, would you?
Me: No, I don’t, but I do live just right there and I do have a scooper. I’ll take him around the block and let that set up, then I’ll drop him off at home and come back to pick it up. Will that work?
K: (glaring) Thank you.
First and foremost: I completely understand and do not blame her one bit for being upset. Secondly – I THINK WE ARE TOTALLY GETTING BLAMED FOR THE WORK OF THE GHOST DOG(S).
So when we finished our walk, I dropped Chewie off at home, grabbed the scooper (which really looks and works more like a small frontloader), and went across the street to make good on my promise. I am not. Proud. Of this next part. But maybe if she hadn’t yelled at me things might have ended differently.
There were – I kid you not – three other treasures left on her front yard. I only picked up Chewie’s goods.
I felt like crap about that (no pun intended) the rest of the day.