For the second time in a week, my lawn has dog poop on it. I will remedy this, the only way I know how.
I have heard that chocolate is like poison to dogs. I do have a lot of chocolate lying around. However, it seems like a waste of perfectly good chocolate, when I have so much actual poison lying around. I could slip the real poison into the dog’s food, and the chocolate into this pan of fudge bars I’m making. I realize my error, however, when I remember that the fudge bars are for trick-or-treating kids and that, as a misanthrope, I require both the chocolate and the poison for the fudge. This, of course, begs the question, “How do I get a dog to go trick-or-treating?”
For starters, I need a costume. This would require more stitching and weaving than I am prepared to muster, except that Old Navy actually sells costumes for dogs. Wizard, pirate, ninja, or cat? The last fucking thing the dog needs is magic (regular magic, ninja magic, or cat magic) to help it poop my lawn to smithereens, but I think an eyepatch might fuck it up, or at least keep it from seeing what I’m up to. It might be hard to convince the dog’s owner to take it trick-or-treating, though, especially since it’s a seeing eye dog and the owner is diabetic. And blind. Since it’s a seeing eye dog.
Solution: I break into the neighbor’s house and steal one of his CDs (Gloria Estefan and the Miami something something). The next day, I rub it with dirt, knock on his door and say, “Um, I think your dog left this on my lawn.” And he says thanks and invites me in. I feign thirst, and the blind guy heads into the kitchen to get me a glass of water. “Say, nice place you got here. Oh, is this a picture of your kids? Yeah?” I say, muffling the dog while forcing an eyepatch and boots onto it. I thank my host for the water and then leave.
On Halloween afternoon, I return to my neighbor’s place and knock on the door. He opens it and I pull out a lead pipe and knock him out. This may seriously injure him, but it serves my purposes. I shake him, saying, “Buddy! Buddy!” until he comes to. “What happened?” he says. “You were just about to take your dog trick-or-treating,” I tell him. “And then I knocked you out with this pipe, accidentally.” He doesn’t beleive me, but I point out that his dog is wearing an eyepatch and boots, which he confirms by touch. “I certainly don’t remember doing that!” he says, but feels obligated. I excuse myself and go back home.
That evening, my neighbor comes by with his dog. I give the dog a fudge bar and by morning the dog is dead. This leaves me elated, until four days later when I find a fresh coat of shit matted onto my lawn. I have killed the wrong dog.
I decide to ask the neighbor if he’s seen any other similar-looking dogs around, only realizing my mistake after I ask. “Hi, sorry to bother you, what with the grieving and all, but have you seen any … I mean … do you … have you smelled or, uh, heard any dogs, lately, that look like … no, smell or sound like they, uh, might look like your old dog?” No? Fair enough.
I contact my brother who works for the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, and ask him if they have anything on tap that kills dogs and only dogs, and if he can mail it to me. He says they have a bunch — Enwoofalitis, Double Rabies, Doggie AIDS — but that they’re all totally off-limits and that he’d lose his job. “Come on,” I say, “You love losing your job for me!”
“Oh yeah,” he says, and three days later an aerosol spray can of Golden Re-fever arrives in my mailbox. I spray the lawn and, much to my delight, as the days wear on, the shit on my lawn gets more watery and pungent. The dog is dying!
Then, just on the cusp of my total victory, Jesus descends from heaven and grants the dog immortality. God-damn it!
I wait 20 years. At 7:32 am on February 20, 2023, California sinks into the ocean in a massive earthquake and, while I die, that infernal dog is left to sink. “But dogs can swim!” you say. Oh yeah? Maybe so, but can they swim … FOR ETERNITY??