I have to admit that in three years of living in Paris I never -- never! -- stepped in dog poop. Though I saw a bunch of real doozies on the sidewalk and curbs, especially in the morning when they were fresh. Eventually, though, it all becomes second nature.
Ah, how things change when one returns to the US.
I've just moved to a delightful white farmhouse on a hill in Virginia. So lovely and bucolic. So serene. The most noise is the occasional quite romantic sounding of the train's horn as it passes at the railroad crossing at the bottom of the hill.
And in the pasture just across the fence are two horses and two donkeys. Oh, how they add to the lore of the place. They silently roam the field by day, munching the grass.
But when nighttime falls, and the horses settle into the barn, the damn donkeys slip through some section of unguarded fence and wander into my yard.
When heading up the driveway one evening, through the car's headlights I thought I spotted the world's largest, homeliest deer grazing in my yard. Au contraire. It was Eeyore, and his pal, chowing down on my lawn and leaving his calling card here, there, and everywhere.
Don't lose your appetites, folks, but it looks -- at best -- like huge glistening pyramids of brown charcoal briquettes randomly scattered outside.
Apparently this has been happening for a while prior to my arrival here, so the donkey doo-doo is a bit overwhelming.
And -- well -- all I can say is, in terms of animal droppings, I'd prefer the Parisian sidewalks any day. At least they're cleaned up once a day. So I don't want to hear anyone complaining about les crottes de chiens in Paris.