Poop post

I have gone on record as stating that I have little patience with those who refer to their pets as their "furry children". I have children. I have never locked them in the house with food on the floor while I went out for a few hours.

Now I'm a dog-owner, I'm being inundated with emails, flyers and pamphlets addressing me as a "pet-parent". Puhleese.

I'll tell you, though, there is one particular parallel between caring for babies and caring for dogs: you find yourself thinking about in-put and out-put a lot. Particularly the output.

I'm not quite sure when it became mandatory in Canada for owners to pick up dog droppings, but this occurred after the last time I owned a dog, when I was very much younger. We just walked the dog, and, uh, left his leavings. In the interim, after poop-scooping became the rule, I would come upon dog-droppings and shake my head: Another irresponsible owner. Shouldn't be allowed. Doesn't deserve to have animals.

I came up against the hard (well, rather gooey) reality about this time a week ago when I took our newly-adopted canine for his first walk after the interminable ride home from the humane society. He made a beeline (dog-line?) for a neighbour's garden and did his business in a pile of dead leaves. I realized that I couldn't possibly locate what he'd done in the dark and shamefacedly skulked off into the night. I've resolved this problem by being the one who does the daytime walks. The Resident Fan Boy, who is a bit more O/C about this matter, has been out more than once with a flashlight, searching for the contents for the little blue bag.

And rather like when we had babies, we quickly got over our queasiness, and I find myself, along with my fellow neighbourhood dog-walkers, making the rounds with the dog pulling on the lead in my one hand, while the other clutches the little bag, which means I find I have to ignore any itches on my nose until I can get home to flush the thing. The past week has been full of little discoveries like these.

Children grow up to be toilet-trained voters if one does one's job. It seems, however, that this is unlikely to be the case with a dog. So, I'll pass on the title of "pet-parent", thank-you. I'll also refrain from writing on this topic again, for which you may possibly thank me.

Identity crisis

We're heading into High Autumn now, and this particular one is reaching the high and colourful standards of the fall of 2001 when we first came to Hades, which, come to think of it, also followed on the damp heels of an unseasonably rainy summer. So this morning, for the first time since 2001, I saw the striped sidewalk effect, due to the droppings of three particularly vivid maples lined up the next block up from our house. It looks like the Doctor's scarf; too bad the effect was spoiled by this morning's clutter of garbage cans and recycling bins, delayed by yesterday's Thanksgiving holiday.

Today is Election Day, and while all true Canadians whinge about the weather and government, they cannot rightfully do the latter, in my opinion, unless they've bothered to vote, no matter how futile it may seem. Particularly at our house this year. I'm voting with my conscience, even though I find all four leadership candidates depressingly unprepossessing; the Resident Fan Boy is voting strategically, even though our riding has gone to the same party since 1974.
"When are you going in to cancel my vote, darling?" I call to the RFB as he heads out for work. Oh well.

Now, the challenge in voting for the past couple of years lies in the new identification rules. Apparently, even with sinking voting participation with each election, there are fears of illegal voting. (I wish I thought people cared that much. I wish I thought I cared that much.) This means perusing a rather large pamphlet with long lists of combinations of IDs which will be acceptable at the polling place. Most people can get away with their driver's license, but I'm a militant non-driver. This means I need a piece of government ID (a birth certificate or a passport), and (here's the rub) something on the approved list that shows my address. Up until recently, that was my health card, but it came up for renewal last April and the new ones don't bear addresses for "privacy reasons". A utility bill is also acceptable, but I just paid my bills last week and the bit with the address on it is what's returned with the cheque. I email the Resident Fan Boy for the location of our Canada Child Tax Benefit statement and he tells me that he shreds them. Oh dear. I have a letter from my mum but the stamp isn't cancelled, and letters are not on the lengthy list. Fortunately, Resident Fan Boy hasn't paid the hydro bill yet, and that bears both our names. Whew. I stride down to the United Church, where two lovely Indo-Canadian ladies tell me that everything is in order. "You mean I get to vote?" I cry with mock-glee. Fortunately, these ladies are not "election day Hitlers" and they laugh, and hand me my ballot.

Now I'm going to find somewhere to blot out the world. The Resident Fan Boy may be an election coverage junkie, but I'm not. This year, the polls don't close until 9:30, so I have the option of retreating to bed and watching Gavin and Stacey. I wonder if DVD rentals spike on Election Night...