Yesterday afternoon, I saw my dad start up the lawnmower and thought I'd give him some help. So out I went, poop-scooper in hand, to take care of the leavings of our precious puppy.
I walked out the door, and noticed that all the poop seemed to be gone. I gave my dad a questioning look, and he smiled and shrugged. Apparently, he's the bomb and had it all taken care of already. Then he stopped the mower.
"Well, I'm sure I missed some," he said. "I'll point it out as I go around."
This was not what I had bargained for, and he proceded to point out all the piles after he'd gone over them with the mower. I can handle my poop as well as the next guy, but when the poop is all smooshed into the ground and has been mowed over, it turns out it makes me a little nauseous. Go figure. So the next time my dad had stopped the mower, I suggested another way of dealing with it.
"Can't you just, you know," I gestured frantically mowing over the same spot a few times, "chop it up?"
You should have seen the look he gave me.
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