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Canine Cacaphobe

[whitespace] Destroy those who defy the pooper-scooper law!

By Hank Hyena

I'm mad at the crap that's ruining my life! my
first date with Carol--we're strolling arm-in-arm through Dolores Park. The moon is full, desire is bubbling, naughty thoughts entice us--maybe a dry hump by the tennis courts?

"Look out!" she whispers, "Straight ahead!"

"What?" I ask. "Drug dealers?"

"No! Worse!"

A murky blob appears beneath me; I try to swerve but the Puerta Allegre margaritas tardy my reaction. My left foot stumbles forward--SQUISH! OH NO! It's a DOG TURD!

Grotesquely, I try to scrape the bow-wow boo-boo off my Converse. Impossible! Hopping home alone, I toil the rest of the night digging Fido feces out of my treads with a chopstick ...

GRRR! I HATE DOGGIE DUNG! I'm a CANINE CACAPHOBE! It's everywhere! If it gets any worse, Tony Bennett will start singing, "I Left My Shoe in San Francisco."

There's a city ordinance--the "Pooper-Scooper Law"--that requires immediate removal of dog defecation, but this code is ignored by hundreds of sociopaths ...

Just yesterday, I watched a deviant from my window--he pretended to admire some pigeons while his Husky poured mush on my doorstep. When the foul deed was done, the pair strolled lightly off--that's when I shrieked, "Pick that crap up!" The owner feigned innocence. "That's not ours ... I didn't see that happen." He refused to remove the mess until I threatened to fresco it onto his sweater.

What's the solution? What should we do about rogue and rampant doggie doo-doo? Culprits who encourage their curs to contaminate our community should be cruelly punished--let's shove their faces in a glob! Let's force them to scour our soiled shoes with their tongues!

Pooch piss is also a problem, particularly when it's piddled on my petunias. I planted a patch around the jacaranda tree I purchased from "Friends of the Urban Forest"--everything bloomed magnificently until a Rottweiler mistook them for a fire hydrant. Burned by the bile, my petunias withered and died. "Eye for an eye" revenge was mine--I followed the Rottweiler home. I drained a loaded bladder into the owner's mail slot ...

San Francisco should be sexy, but mutt merde reeks of the reverse, even when it's properly disposed of. Last week, I was lunching on the South Park lawn with a mini-skirted media babe. Her golden retriever "Ajax"--who follows her everywhere like a slobbering shadow--suddenly gritted his teeth and squeezed out an ugly coil that a swarm of green flies began licking. "Good job, Ajax!" my date cooed. She shoveled the stench into her coffee cup and tossed it into a trash can. After that, I couldn't taste my chicken salad, and the thought of intimacy with her was linked with the odor of Ajax excrement.

Pet apologists think I'm anal, but really, shouldn't there be private toilets for Rover? I hate seeing a hound ooze elimination from his haunches. It's illegal for people to evacuate in public, so why do we let doggies do it?

My advice? Tax the Mutt-Masters! Make them build lavatories where their barkers can bowel-blast out of view. Canine-crap crimes also contain class overtones. Pacific Heights pets never stain their own sidewalks. They're escorted to the Mission, instead--pedigreed pooches slather spoor there before wagging back to their pristine palaces.

This represents a shit-and-run assault on our working- class neighborhoods! Dogs that discard waste outside their own district should be skewered at Pancho Villa's and turned into taco meat.

Send your wild ideas on how to make SF better to [email protected].

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From the January 18, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

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