Monday, June 21, 2004

The Zen of Poo

I found it one morning, in front of our barbecue. Round, soft, smooth texture, by the look of it. Looked pretty fresh, but it struck me as strange... who, if that's what it was, would poo in our garden? And not just discreetly in the flowerbed or a dark corner, like the well-behaved cats do, but actually have the nerve to relieve himself in front of our barbie?
I stood there, contemplating, in the warm morning sun, inspecting the insolent pile of excrement which looked too weird to be of its kind.
Sarah, my housemate, stepped outside for her morning cigarette. I turned to her.
"Do you know what that is?"
Sarah stepped closer and eyed the tiny heap critically, but I could see a certain cluelessness in her face.
"Is that turd?", I asked.
She still looked unsure. "Didn't the guys have a barbie last night? I think Russell dropped a burger."
"A burger?", I said, doubtfully. There are a lot of exaggerated claims about the quality of the English cuisine, but never would one expect for the average burger to look like shite. But then again, maybe it was an an Asda Smartprice one.

A few hours later, Russell got up, and I asked him to come outside. "Can I have your professional opinion on something?" I asked and pointed to the brown heap which had begun to dry on the surface, cracking like African dried mud in a drought.
"Is that one of your burgers?"
Russell glanced at it.
"Nah", he diagnosed with a tone of expertise. "That's turd."

Turns out it was foxes. We hear them at night, sometimes. When they scream, they sound like crying toddlers. Like babies. It is the creepiest sound to wake up to in the middle of the night.

And yet this seemingly insignificant poo taught me a lot. About liberation and innocense and never thinking twice about anything but just going with the flow... of LIFE! Of LIFE! Yes of course. It must be a peaceful existence, being a fox.
Except maybe in England. Well, they had it coming for them. If they poo in everyone's garden, no wonder fox-hunting is the big British pastime.
You just don't mess with an Englishman's garden.

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