American Crow.
I’d like to tell a little story about a poop bag.
A dog-poop bag, I mean, of course. I keep two or three or four in my front right pocket at all times, because I have a dog—a good dog, named Captain Jack—and we go for a daily hike up Beech Hill, and I always collect his poop in these (green biodegradable plastic) bags, along with (too often) the poop of anonymous other dogs accompanying anonymous other people who hike the trails but don’t feel compelled to collect their own dogs’ shit-piles, no matter that they often end up in the middle of the snowy winter trail.
Sky half full.
Anyway, today on our way up the crusted snow of the upper wooded trail, where the bare poplars swayed and squealed and clattered in a the stout, gusty wind, Jack pooped twice. Twice is unusual, but never mind—I always have plenty of poop bags. I wrapped everything together in one.
We heard a robin, saw a chickadee, flushed a winter partridge. At the little corner fence by the open fields below the summit, I went to leave the poop bag on the fencepost, but the wind was so strong I feared it would blow off, so I tossed it onto a sunny white expanse of trail where I knew I wouldn’t miss it on our way back down. Then we hiked up and over the blustery summit. On the way down to the other side, we met a young woman and boy coming up. We exchanged pleasantries, and the boy petted Jack for a second.
On the way back up and over, when we didn’t meet these folks returning, I realized they must’ve continued on down into the woods. As we neared the corner fence, two thoughts occurred: 1) what would they think when they saw the green poop bag on the trail; 2) they wouldn’t actually pick up the poop bag, thinking it abandoned, would they?
Well, the poop bag wasn’t there. This brought up such a flurry of different, crazy feelings that I knew I had to write about it.
Turkey Vulture.
First I felt a little pissed off. They took my poop bag! Couldn’t they have guessed we came up from the other side? I mean, theirs was the only car in the Beech Hill Road lot—wasn’t it obvious? Well, of course I realized right away that it wasn’t obvious at all, and then I felt sheepish and embarrassed. These good folks had thought they’d come upon an abandoned poop bag—something I’ve done dozens of times—and decided they’d better take care of it, no doubt shaking their heads at the forgetful person who had left it there. (Wrong!) But then came gratefulness. Thankfulness that there are people like that, like me, who would retrieve someone’s abandoned poop bag, because it’s the responsible, thoughtful thing to do.
Then came a hint of worry, of wondering if perhaps they’ve just tossed the bag off the trail and into the bushes somewhere. But why would I imagine that? Because most people don’t even bother to pick up their dogs’ poop? Might I ever do something like that?
Well, I wouldn’t, naturally. And I’m sure they didn’t. But it occurred to me—as we descended the wooded trail, and I hoped we’d perhaps meet the woman and boy so I could reclaim Jack’s poop bag and explain—that this was the third time I’d had someone retrieve a bag of my dog’s poop, and that, in the case of the only one of the three I happened to confirm, I learned that it was as simple as that. They did what I would do.
Staghorn sumac.
And I concluded that, for all the lazy, careless people who don’t bother to pick up their dogs’ poop, there are plenty of others who will actually go above and beyond. And that left me feeling pretty good on a windy, sunny Sunday in the woods of Beech Hill.
Beech Hill List
Beginning at 11:15 p.m., I hiked all trails.
1. American Robin* (v)
2. Black-Capped Chickadee**
3. Ruffed Grouse
4. Turkey Vulture
5. American Crow*
Elsewhere
6. Herring Gull
7. Red-Tailed Hawk
v = Voice only
*Also elsewhere
**Voice only elsewhere
