Eh, that’s a baseball park, not a dog toilet. Our keiki play there. I jog in the morning and I’ll see half a dozen people releasing the hounds. That’s fine, but leaving their turds just isn’t pono. Those steaming piles of doodoo don’t just magically poof into shitake fertilizer dust and disappear overnight. Either someone else has to scoop them up or it smears all over our keiki’s shoes, or the lawn mower hits them and sprays them into a minefield of poop shrapnel. When it rains, it melts into icky goo. A few days ago, I saw a big guy with a beefy dog drop a bomb over by first-base fence. When he got back to his truck, he wiped the dog’s okole. But that thoughtful gift was still there the next morning, not far from another one. Auwe. I asked a one guy running his dogs for a plastic bag, and he said no, he only had two for himself. What, only take care of yourself? You’re not akamai to scoop up two in one? I threw up my hands, ran back home and got a bag.
Illustration: Ron Pitts