The Dark Side of Dog Walking in the Isle of Man: A Cautionary Tale

I did something today that I never wished for myself. Something I didn’t know I was capable of. Something that makes me want to peel the flesh from my bones.

Allow me to set the scene.

My parents were off to London for a mini break of West End shows and mum announcing to dad what is and what is not a Roman wall. She does so loudly, so passers-by can hear and get themselves a free tour of sorts thanks to her generous spirit and wealth of knowledge.

‘You know what Winifred; I’d never questioned whether that Covent Garden Costa was built from a historical Roman wall,’ a grateful passerby will say. ‘But after hearing that woman speaking unnecessarily loudly about it, I now know for certain it isn’t. That’s going to make me the life and soul of conversation at Geraldine’s 60^th tonight!’

In their absence, I was asked to look after their dog, Basil, and take care of the rabbit, Pip. Pip hates everyone so I’m still figuring out if ‘take care of Pip’ really means ‘take care of Pip’ with some form of blunt object. Everything was normal when my parents left. They’d taken Basil for a morning walk, nothing to report. I took him for his second walk in the evening under cover of darkness. Thank goodness.

Ten minutes in, Basil assumes ‘the position’. I get myself ready, poo bag in hand. Only to see nothing for me to pick up. Basil remains in the ‘brace’ position for a good 2 minutes. I try to usher him on, but he stays where he is, maintaining an uncomfortable amount of unblinking eye contact with me.

‘I don’t know what you want me to do, Bas’ I tell him.

His eye contact remains unbroken. The only thing different about the situation is what’s hanging from his back end. Stuck.

‘No, Basil.’

He looks at me, imploringly.

‘Basil… I can’t.’

Still, he looks, like the most helpless soul to ever have walked the planet, and I’m the only person who can put him out of his misery. I’d left my shotgun at home – typical – so I resigned myself to the inevitable. I was going to have to… help.

(I should have mentioned at the start, this isn’t an ideal piece of reading over lunch. Particularly, if you’re having thick, sloppy soup or lumpy beef stew).

I double-bagged my hand. Took a deep breath. Gagged. The breath was a mistake. Instead, I held it and lowered myself until I was tail level. The equivalent of a plug chain dangled, swinging in the air between Basil’s behind and the ground. Retching, I reached out and grabbed hold. Basil continued to stare at me, simultaneously judging me while telepathically telling me to ‘do it.’

I tugged, he pulled away, and a stick half the length of the average forearm came out of him covered in what you would expect. Unplugged, he merrily trotted on, 4 pounds lighter with not a care in the world, leaving me continuing to retch in his wake.

‘Thank GOODNESS no one walked past us,’ I thought to myself.

I can picture it now, my soul leaving my body as I chirpily exclaim ‘happy new year’ to a stranger – oh wait, it’s my ex-boyfriend with his gorgeous new partner – with my hand holding onto a literal poo stick coming out of my parents’ dog’s ass while he continues to maintain that psychotic stare.

To the more mature-minded among you, I’m sure you barely give this natural matter of picking up after your poo-ch a second thought. If anything, it highlights that you are a stand-up citizen looking out for the environment and protecting your fellow Manxies from a nasty squelch when out on a Sunday stroll. I admire you. For me, it provokes a level of social anxiety similar to when I was 14 and my parents walked in on me acting out the plot of ‘Titanic’ – I played all parts – to the soundtrack on CD.

It’s always the same when I walk any dog. I leave the house, lead in hand, expecting the whole ordeal to be a relaxing experience out in the fresh air. But every time the pooch stops my stress levels rise wondering if this is ‘the moment’. Basil likes to stop once every 2.5 centimetres to sniff around, making my blood pressure at the end of a 30-minute walk at crisis level.

There’s nothing worse than your dog assuming the position outside a chippy at 5pm on a weekday in front of gridlocked traffic with 12 people stood by a floor to ceiling window waiting for some battered cod. Glancing around sheepishly to see if people are watching, you know everyone’s thinking ‘oh my God, how embarrassing. I would DIE.’

Even though dog walking can lead to many a wonderful exchange with fellow dog walkers which is great for one’s mental health, the chippy scenario is why I plan routes that involve as little potential for human interaction as possible. Places I avoid walking a dog:

• By any schools, especially during break times. On one of Basil’s walks, I heard a girl shout ‘EWWW LOOK! HE’S WEEING!’ I’d hate to see the reaction if she’d seen me helping Basil’s constipation.
• Strand Street. On a Saturday. At lunchtime. IMAGINE.
• By a road-based police incident that everyone will slow down to drive past.
• A public Christmas nativity.

By taking these precautions, if I find myself in a situation where I’m having to pull something out of my parents’ dog’s ass, at least I only have to do it in front of the unnaturally unblinking gaze of Basil rather than the prying eyes of the public. Although, if it happens in the middle of London, I take solace in the fact that my mother will provide a good distraction with her ‘This is Not a Roman Wall’ tour.