Hü Poupe’d

By Anonymous / Originally published in Unleash Jacksonville, DUTY issue

*Not the actual culprit in THIS story

We’ve recently started using this adorable little french phrase in our home—Hü Poupe´d. I don’t expect you to be able to pronounce it—it’s rathar fancy-pants—but, roughly, it translates to “who pooped” in English. I personally like to say it three times in a row, while looking at my suspects directly into their eyeballs. Surprisingly enough, in our house, the one who doesn’t look away is most often the one hü poupe´d (he’s a brazen boydog and uses the “But I’m Paralyzed” card every. single. time.)

We don’t really need to ask this question. It’s always that same guy. We ask it, hoping for some sign of remorse, as he will stare back at me—through me really—as if to say, Yah I did it and it was awesome. And guess what? In about three hours … gonna do it again. {shrug} Let me know if you wanna watch.

So … I mean … I’m not sure if you’ve ever allowed anyone to go number two in your home consistently and repeatedly, but if not, I’ll give you an insider’s perspective—it makes you feel downright disgusting. It makes you want to wash your feet sixteen times a day, that’s for sure, and it makes you not want to have anyone over for a decent lasagna dinner.

During a recent storm, I was looking for one of our pups who tends to be frightened, and I took a little look-see under my bed. That’s when life changed forever. I did find him there, curled up in his safe zone …. but I also found something else—well, let’s see … imagine the biggest turd you can think of. Go ahead and multiply it by two and add six. It was massive, it was impressive. Huh. I wonder how long that’s been there, I whispered out loud to no one. And then, crouched there, gazing under my bed at the silhouette of a massive turd … I wondered how I got here. Not knowing how long a turd has been under my bed?! That’s ludacris. I’ve always known how long turds have been under my bed. When did this happen to me and is this how it’s just going to be from now on? How did I not smell it and am I still a good person? (It feels really good to talk about all this—my stinky little secret. Go ahead—tell all your perfect friends that Anonymous is absolutely hideous.)

Since starting to care for this dog who can’t help but accept—nay, be proud of—what he can’t control, I’m begrudgingly learning the same. Ugh, life lessons are so dumb sometimes. I don’t like it. But I do like him. As part of our System of Containment, there is a garbage bag-sized bag of dog poop on my front porch. You do what you gotta do. What of it? Keeps the peeping Toms from staying to long.

I’ve come to realize the answer to my questions, following the discovery of MegaTurd (except how did I not smell it). This has happened to me because, as much as I may want to just take off in a jet plane some days, I’m not a deserter (However, I am a desserter, by the by. Anything warm and chocolate-y.) I love my dogs through thick and thin; barf piles and endless mounds of poo-nami; even old age, I know that’s a crazy notion for some. So, accepting what I cannot immediately change, I better invest in a good steamer and, yah. I do think I’ll check under the bed more often. •

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