When we lived in Utah we had a house with a big back lawn covered with deep, thick lush grass; a testament to my obsessive-compulsive tendencies in yard care. To me, the back yard was a shrine to proper fertilization, watering, mowing and trimming. To Max, it was the ultimate toilet.
Consequently, Max learned that one should only drop his oh-so-blessed Malt nuggets on grass such as one might find at the White House. This was a big mistake on our part. Were the option now available I would train the little guy to poop on all surfaces from hard pan to gravel to broken glass. At the time, however, we thought the persnickety traits of the pup were cute.
Later, when we got the trailer and started exploring the American West, Max’s insistence on ideal conditions was inconvenient and even embarrassing. In the desert southwest there is a dearth of locations offering soft fresh green grass for the Maltese toilette. Scrub, dust, jumping cholla and shard was much more the common condition.
Max would choose to explode rather than squat on anything other than a natural carpet of Tall Fescue, Bermuda or St. Augustine. This led us to visiting damn near every LDS church from Colorado to California because these meeting houses were always – always! – surrounded by well maintained lawns. So picture this…a quiet morning outside the church…up roars a truck and trailer. The door opens, out rushes a guy in a cowboy hat with a tiny dog. They charge up onto the lawn, the dog delivers the goods, the trailer cowboy does the scoop and knot and off they run back into the truck and…gone! Lather, rinse, repeat.
Here in Honolulu there are certain spots that have passed the Malt’s inspection and have been deemed satisfactory. So that’s where we go…in the rain, late at night, whenever because they are the only official, approved places. The ideal spot is Maxie’s Park which we visit every Sunday.
I thought I was nuts until I talked to my neighbor who I spotted walking through the condo parking garage on a rainy day carrying a square of artificial turf. “Bijoux”, he said referring to his pretty poodle, “refuses to go anywhere unless there is grass so now I carry it with me.”
And I thought I was crazy.
What about your pooch? Carpet bomber or surgical striker?
Categories: Max's Stories