Step Into Spring--And Dog Doo

It's thaw time in Cleveland. A time when human activity begins to spill back into city streets like blood returning to a waking limb. When we all toss our coats into the closet and go out in our long sleeved t-shirts, even when the forecast calls for nothing warmer than 47 degrees.

And when the smog-gray crust that was the snow finally melts away, you realize two things. One: spring is on mercifully on its way. Two: people are a-holes.

Because every three feet or so, you find a dog turd. A dog turd that's been hidden away for months between the snow, like a dirty little secret. Lying there. Biding its time. Waiting for you to break out your open-toed shoes, looking forward to being squished through the sides of your sandals like play-doh in a fun factory.

Literally, downtown Cleveland looks like it was hit by a dog turd tornado. Nuggets are strewn everywhere like small, brown, displaced mobile homes. Pedestrians appear to do the Jitter Bug as they carefully seek out feces-free areas of sidewalk to little avail. And the downtown residents are all out and about walking their dogs, demonstrably holding a plastic bag as if to say "don't look at me! Not my dog!"

But it was their dog. I know it. I know how cold and empty those streets get during the winter. No one will see if you don't duck down and scoop up your doodie. And in all of that snow! Your poor fingy-wingies could get frost-bitten! So they just leave their dogs' business, figuring that nature will conceal their crime. Fast-forward to March, and any visitor to Cleveland would think our number-one export was Labrador loaf. The whole "Cleveland Steamer" phenomena is starting to make a lot more sense. (Grandma, don't google that. Please.)

And it's not just downtown. Following the thaw, it's become apparent that my yard happens to be the preferred place of business for my neighbor's horrible hounds. I'd really like to say something, but the last time we had a conversation, she did most of the talking through a small stuffed rabbit named "Mr. Bear" (I'M NOT KIDDING.) and I'm afraid she may cast some sort of spell on me or kill me and use my skin as a sleeping bag. Perhaps I'll take the passive aggressive route and convert my small patch of grass into a broken glass and syringe garden. It will be shiny and arguably more attractive than the death and dirt I've got going on.

Fortunately, the driving rains of March and April will soon wash the turds out of sight and into our drinking water. Until then, I will be vigilantly watching the dog walkers and their decoy plastic bags. When I'm not watching my step, that is.