Pooper Scooper Meditation*

(*This title was inspired by my friend A, who cleans up after a minimum of five dogs, every single day.)

I've always been charmed by those tasks which are mentioned in books of Buddhist philosophy as good practice for being in the moment: chopping wood, carrying water, sweeping the garden paths. Simple tasks, and repetitive, but also clean, spare and elegant, like a Japanese garden.

I have lately come up with another task which can lead one to being in the moment, to engaging in process rather than attaching to outcomes (since it is endless), and to maintaining a properly humble attitude: pooper scooping.

I have practiced pooper scooping on a daily basis for about a week now. At first, I used my long-handled tools--the shovel and the rake--to keep at arm's distance from the object of my efforts. But I have discovered that that doesn't work. To scoop poop efficiently, especially if it is encased in ice, you have to get up close. You have to grab your tools near the business end for maximum leverage, and you have to dig and carve. You sometimes even have to dislodge a stubborn bit with the toe of your rubber boot. And you have to retrieve the pieces that fly off and scoop them patiently onto the shovel, then into the bucket. You have to be present, you have to be humble, you have to be one with the poop.

Here I am, an educated 21st century woman living in the world's most affluent society, doing work that, in the cradle of Buddhism, is relegated to the untouchables. How ironic! How utterly paradoxical!

I believe that pooper scooping--like washing lepers' wounds--is an excellent Buddhist, and Christian, exercise. It puts you in touch with the present (you have to concentrate to do it well); it puts you in touch with the realities of life (food-to-poop on the one hand, suffering and death on the other); and it makes you feel gratitude (for having dogs, for not having leprosy). Its rhythm--walk, scoop, dump, walk, scoop, dump--induces a meditative state similar to that achieved by deep breathing methods.

Except that, when you pooper scoop, you try to keep deep breathing to a minimum.

Pooper Scooping Mysteries

Man, am I frustrated, perplexed and bewildered!

Ever since I decided to have a clean yard, I have been pooper scooping faithfully once, sometimes twice, a day. Armed with a steel shovel (forget the plastic popper scooper shovel--I'm dealing with ice and snow and frozen turds), the pooper scooper rake, and a bucket lined with a plastic bag, I set out every morning after breakfast in quest of dog poops.

Our invisible fence encompasses an acre of yard and woods, so I have a lot of ground to cover--ground which is covered by over a foot of snow, crusted with ice on top, so that I sink with every step and occasionally fall. Is this starting to sound like something out of Dostoevsky yet? Slowly I crisscross the terrain, scooping as I go until I figure that I have scooped three dogs' worth of excreta. Then I trudge some more, way out into the field, past the invisible fence, and dump out the day's harvest. Then I trudge back, putting my feet in the holes they had made in the snow on the way out, and store the tools and bucket in the garage.

After a moment of gratitude that the job is over for the day, I head for the shower.

I haven't been enjoying this morning task, but I have felt a sense of pride and righteousness over our newly hygienic yard. No more telling visitors "watch where you put your feet!" And hanging clothes out on the line, once the weather warms, will be pure pleasure without having to worry about where I put the basket.

I thought all was well until I discovered two days' worth of Lexi's poops in the downstairs guest room.

Lexi is an eleven-year-old dog who, since we adopted her at age four months, has never had an accident indoors. She has lived in three different houses, watched two new puppies come into the pack, traveled with us, accepted various house sitters, and dealt with housefuls of guests with nary an accident. If there was one thing I could count on in my life, it was Lexi's scrupulous neatness. And now this.

There was no sign of diarrhea. She hadn't been cloistered for longer-than-usual periods. In fact, the last couple of days the dogs have been outside even longer than usual, as I put them outside while I work on my wattle fence. The only reason I can think of for this dreadful turn of events is the pooper scooping. Lexi doesn't know what to make of the pristine yard.

I must admit I got upset. I dragged Lexi by the collar to the guest room and spoke sharply to her. Dog books say that if you reprimand a dog after the fact, it has no idea why you're scolding it. But Lexi is not just any dog, and I'm certain she knew just why I was scolding her. After I cleaned up, I let her out, and took Bisou out on leash as well for good measure. Lexi stuck close to me and pushed against my leg, ears back, tail low. She was making amends, and I forgave her.

But what am I going to do? At seven months, Bisou is house trained, but I still need to keep close tabs on her. I cannot imagine having to keep track of her bowels and Lexi's as well.

Maybe, as the yogis advise, I should not just do something, but sit there. Watch and see what happens. If Lexi has more accidents in the house, I will have to crate her--something she will regard as an affront to her dignity, I am sure. But maybe she will become accustomed to the sparkling clean yard, and get on with life as usual.

Wish us luck.

Pooper Scooper

At the pet store yesterday I purchased: 1. a bag of high-end super-digestible dog food, and 2. a pooper scooper. The woman who rang me up did not respond to my joke about the relationship between the two items.

Until now, I have resisted scooping poop. I mean, we live in the country--our house has fields before it and woods behind it, eighteen acres of potential dog bathroom space. In this day and age, however, even in the country we can't allow our dogs to roam freely, to kill a neighbor's chickens or get mauled by coyotes or, most likely, get killed by a car.

We have put an invisible fence around our backyard. I regard this fence more as a deterrent than an impregnable boundary. If a deer came close (which for some reason it never has), I'm almost sure our dogs would opt for the pleasure of chasing it despite the sting of the fence. Therefore, I never leave the dogs out unsupervised for more than a few minutes--the time it takes to relieve themselves.

However, now that I have three dogs, and especially since Our Forester has cleaned up the woods so nicely, I'm having to change my irresponsible attitude towards dog poop. I'm going to have to scoop. Hence my purchase of highly digestible, expensive kibble which, combined with my home-cooked melange, will, I hope, reduce the matter to be scooped to an absolute minimum.

Still, I am not looking forward to the job. I have resisted it for years, but the time has come for me to join the ranks of responsible 21st-century dog owners. The time has come for me to hold my head high, think of England, and scoop poop.