Dog poo!

There are some things about living in Spain which I’ve grown accustomed to and others which I will never get used to. And one of those is dog poo.

We live in a new development in a village and just behind our house is a lovely park, perfect for my daughters to play and run around in. However, I’m loathed to let them loose as it’s full of dog mess. The other mothers I’ve spoken to have always agreed how disgusting it is and those with dogs are always equally outraged and tell me how they always clear up after their animals.

The village council really couldn’t do more; there are ‘no dogs allowed’ signs on every piece of grassy land, bins which are always well-stocked with plastic bags and even a designated doggie toilet area – without a doubt the most poo-free area in the village. 

I had always had my own theories about who the owners were that let their dogs poo; those who work long hours, come home late and take their pets out at the dead of night. I had seen these dubious dog owners on numerous occasions when I used to go running through the village on cold winter nights. They’d bring their dog out, shoulders hunched, hands deep in their pockets and not a poop-scoop bag in sight. Their dog would run off, out of view, probably do its business, come bounding back, after almost knocking into me and then be taken inside again quickly. The poor creature’s evening outing taking usually about the same time it took the owner to smoke a cigarette.

And being the dead of night, who would notice? Nobody. So, here I thought I’d knew who the culprits were. Until last week I was walking my children to their summer camp in the village and we saw a mother I knew from my aerobics class who was taking her son to the nursery and walking her dog at the same time. I could not believe my eyes when she let her dog run off to an area of wasteland, next to the playground, and leave a great big steaming turd. And then she continued on her way to the nursery, said hello to me, as if nothing had happened. It didn’t seem to even register with her that her dog had made a mess right on a gravel mountain which children, just slightly older than her own son, played on every day. 

I was left in stunned silence. I couldn’t even bring myself to say ‘hola’. I just stared open-mouthed at the place where the dog had been, and muttered something in English to my daughters about dogs being filthy creatures.

 Too late I started thinking that I should have confronted her. But what should I have said? ‘Excuse me, are you going to clear up after your filthy dog?’