Here's the scoop

If you know anything about me, and if you don’t by now then maybe our season is just over, you know I own two fabulous dogs.

Ace is our German Shepherd rescue. We think he was two-years old when we got him, and he had the unenviable job of following our first German Shepherd Max, the world’s greatest dog (who you can read about in the stunning book of dog stories Gone Dogs, the perfect gift for that special dog-loving someone). However Ace has risen to the occasion swimmingly. He is an awesome guy with a completely unhealthy attachment to my wife. Look at her the wrong way. Go on, I dare ya.

Then there’s Lucy. We like to refer to her as an American Sock terrier. My daughter’s friend’s dog had puppies, and Lucy was one of them. She just came home with my wife and daughter one day. I didn’t want to love her, but here we are (talking about Lucy, not the wife and daughter).

Anyway, if you happen to have the good fortune of owning a dog, you already know there are so many great things about it.

The unconditional love.

The excitement no one else in your life will ever have for you when you return from being gone ten minutes.

The tail-wagging faster than windshield wipers set on high.

The warmth and comfort laying next to them on the floor, or if you’re like us, the bed.

The deep-sleep twitching that defies the boundaries of sweetness.

But for all those great things about being a dog parent, there are some realities of dog ownership we don’t discuss often (even though I’ve mentioned them before here and here).

In a word: poop. With big dogs come big poops. For the longest time, because I bought it when Max was the world's cutest puppy, the only thing I had was a small scoop to clean up the yard after my big dog.

It was frustrating, time consuming and extremely unpleasant. Just like my high school girlfriend.

Stay with me. It may not seem like it, but I’ll land the plane in a minute. Sometimes, even though the obvious answer is right in front of me I just don’t see it. I remember one time I was having lunch with a co-worker at Carl’s Jr. right after the BBQ Chicken Club sandwich came out. I told her, “This would be a great sandwich if it didn’t have that flavorless bacon.” To which she replied, “Take the bacon off.”

Like I said, slow on the uptake.

Here’s what that has to do with dog poop. We were at our fabulous friend Joan’s house one day. Joan had two or three large dogs, and at one point she went to clean up after them. I noticed she was using a super-sized poop scooper, and was easily making short work of the souvenirs her pups had left. The clouds parted, the angel choir sang and a little voice in my big head said, “Don’t you feel stupid now Einstein.”

Later that very same day, I became the proud owner of the large poop-removal device you see here: the easy-grip, rubber-fitted wood handle, the oversized tray, the convenient clasp that keeps the two together when not in use.

It’s definitely made the chore much more, not fun, but less unpleasant. There’s no struggle to make things fit. I’m able to collect more at once. And it’s far less stressful and time-consuming than it used to be.

No snappy end line today—poop is funny enough. But all this talk of it does remind me of the old joke: There's this guy who ran off to join the circus. The job he got was walking behind the elephants, scooping up their droppings. When his friend told him he should quit, and asked him how he could do such an awful, disgusting job the guy said, "What? And give up show business?"

Pre-emptive strike

Just when you thought the world was running out of reasons to hate us and laugh at us comes this. Poo-Pourri.

It's a product that, how shall I put this delicately, masquerades certain odors after you've, how shall I put this delicately, dropped a deuce.

The way it works is you make (I said make) a pre-emptive strike against offensive odors by spraying the floral scent of Poo-Pourri in and around the bowl before you do your business. Then after, instead of smelling like, you know, a bathroom, the room smells like the Rockefeller Rose Garden.

Ask anyone who knows me, and when they're done raving about what a fine, upstanding, talented, funny, good looking, caring, compassionate and—what's the word....oh yeah—humble human being I am, there's a good chance they'll also tell you I've never been one to overthink or overanalyze things.

I mean sure, sometimes it'd be nice to know why I do the things I do. But then it always comes back to my parents, and while I'm sure they're at the root of many my neuroses and self-destructive bad behavior, they've both been dead a long time and I don't want to feel anger or hostility towards them. Where's the percentage in that?

Something tells me I may have wandered off point.

What I'm saying is I'm not a sociologist or psychologist. I don't even play one on TV. And maybe I'm reading too much into this. But it seems just the fact a product like this even exists is symptomatic of a larger issue: a society that wants to avoid any unpleasantness in every aspect of their lives. It's reality avoidance at it's most unattractive. It's the highest form of denial working at the level of one of the most basic human bodily functions.

Or maybe people just want their bathrooms to smell nice.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.

Stop sharing

It probably says something about me that I won't let go (figuratively, not literally) of the fact Al Roker admitted on national television to pooping his pants. Or as the kids so delicately call it, sharting.

It bothers me because, and feel free to color me old-fashioned, I still believe that even in these Kardashian-esque days of everybody revealing everything, there's still some information that just doesn't need to be shared.

Here's the thing: we just don't need to know this. I believe that Roker believes he's doing a service by disclosing this information. After all, he had gastric bypass surgery, and the occasional pants pooping is a common side effect. So I hear.

Being a very visible public figure, my guess is he felt he was relaying essential information to everyone watching who's either had or is thinking about having the procedure.

But you know what? That's what the doctors are for.

You don't see Mary Tyler Moore or Halle Berry rattling on in interviews about the digestive issues, nausea, constipation and diarrhea that comes from living with diabetes.

I happen to like Roker. On the Today Show he's often the honest breath of fresh air, for example here where he ripped Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag a new one, or here where he busts Matt Lauer for getting Anne Curry fired.

It's when he starts discussing business south of the border that I have to draw the line.

Life is good for Al Roker. He's got one of the best jobs on television. He makes tons of money every year. He has his own production company. And he's recognized, respected and loved by millions of people every day.

The only thing he doesn't have is a filter.

Those three little words

Nothing says Merry Christmas like the subject of poop.

Ever since my daughter was a little girl, we've had our own father/daughter jokes between us. They often send us into hysterics, while innocent bystanders wonder what time we'll be taking our medicine. Some of them are quite funny and tasteful, perfectly acceptable for telling at the Christmas dinner with family gathered all around.

Some not so much.

There's really no way to explain this gift she got me for Christmas without getting into way more detail than I'm sure any of you want or need to know. Suffice it to say I laughed harder than I have in months when I unwrapped this little gem.

It's an awesome gift, based on a particular joke - one of our less savory ones - that goes way back. Maybe right there is a good place to leave it (figuratively speaking). Except to say that the three little words referred to in the title aren't the ones on the mug.

They're "neat and clean." Enough said.

The Dog Walker

I have an 80 lb. German Sheperd named Max. Short for Maximillan (that's the German part). That's not him in the picture. It's not me either. Max can't walk on a tightrope, and I couldn't catch him. Although if it were us, and the situation were reversed, I have no doubt he wouldn't hesitate to try and catch me.

Then he'd be a German Pancake.

Here's the thing about dogs: like so many relationships in life, all you have to do is feed them and clean up their poop, and in return they give you unconditional love. On days when I don't have to suffer the embarrassment of being seen carrying that steaming little plastic bag, it's not a bad deal.

The problem is a lot of the time, no one's around to take Max out for a walk. The good news is his bladder is pretty sizable. The bad news is so is his water bowl. Realizing this was going to be an issue, I carefully considered all the options.

Doggie door? Nope. If I was going to install one for a dog his size, I may as well hang a sign over it that says, "Burglars welcome. Enter here. Watch your head."

Have Grandma walk him? Don't get me wrong - I love seeing an 83-year old woman dragged down the street hanging on to a leash and screaming for dear life as much as the next guy. But not when she's my wife's mother. Well...no.

Finally I got to the option that made me the most nervous, but also made the most sense: dog walker. Now, where I live there's no shortage of professional dog walkers. But you have to be careful you don't hire someone who's just doing it as a hobby, or between classes.

Fortunately there are a few telltale signs to look for that let you know you're dealing with a professional.

First, make sure they're members of the National Association of Pet Sitters, or Pet Sitters International. Then, they need to have a glossy business card with a silly but cute illustration of an adorable dog smiling, wagging his tail or smiling disturbingly with a mouthful of human teeth. Bonded and insured are also good things to see on the card, although they don't have to actually be that to print it. Finally, there has to be a groaner of a business name. Dogdo Dog Walkers. Fur Their Sake. Wedo Fur You. Petropolis. Or my personal favorite, Dog Bless America.

The lifeblood of their business is referrals. I always check them out, and I've been very lucky. My first dog walker, Desiree, was with us five years (Max is 6, so she was as much a constant in his life as I am). Sadly, she got an offer to run a canine agility center in Seattle.

She referred me to Heidi, another dog walker who was modeling her business and training skills after Desiree. Heidi was there three weeks when her parents in Europe fell ill and she had to leave the country to go care for them.

Tonight, I interviewed Mary Ellen, our third dog walker. She was great. Her references were impeccable. Most importantly, Max loved her. Well, actually that's the second most important thing. The first is I didn't get the vibe this stranger who I happily handed my house key and alarm code to is going to rob me blind and sell my laptop and Xbox on Craigslist.

So tomorrow, Max starts walking with a new friend. I'm hopeful everything will work out fine. I want it to.

Because what I really don't want is to be left holding the bag.