Canine Competition

Melburnians, brace yourself.

There is a scary social epidemic sweeping our streets and infecting our feet.

Take a deep breath. Count to three....

1,2,3...let's just be honest....

Poo.

Yes, that's right ladies and gentlemen, poo.

There is a horrifyingly putrid case of doggy doo popping out (literally) all over the streets of Melbourne. What was once an occasional finding in a lush green park, is now a daily normality for the walkers of suburbia. And god, I am shit scared. (again, literally). Not only for the well being of my footwear, but for my reputation as a socially sane, law abiding citizen.

How have I come to this conclusion, you ask? Well!

It was only a few weeks ago that I decide to haul my cold blooded body out of bed for a spot of daily exercise (and dare I admit, the odd sneaky singalong to the iPod.)

As I merrily jogged down the street, I noticed several spots of peculiar brown mush dotted along the pathway.

Mental voice: "Step to the left, dog turd exactly 0.5 metres ahead"...."Phew!"

I dismissed the incident and continued on my way.

Fast forward a week of university lectures, tutorials and regular day dreaming sessions to Friday- Ah, glorious Friday! The one day of the week where weekend-fun anticipation begins and life motivation kicks in. 

People seem more chirpy, more relaxed and more confident on a Friday. (Oh my, did Australia Post's marketing department ever get that one right or what?!)

Friday morning jolliness beaming, let me assure you that, at 8:23 am, I felt so connected to the path of poo that I successfully avoided stepping in what was, by then, a dried, crusty dropping. Head held high, I strided on by....

But you see, it wasn't until later that day, that I realised the disastrous potential that dog poo is causing.

Cue the first ever elective class for the new semester. A new subject, at a new campus, with new people to meet and new friends to make. Bring on that Friday optimism, baby!

A little bit past 11am, and I am slightly late.

"Shit."

I hurriedly dash into the class, plonking myself into the first seat I see, hoping that the tutor failed to witness my crass, inefficient entry.

She doesn't, and I slowly slump, hoping I haven't carved the niche of being "that" late person.

I listen attentively for the majority of the three hour class. Three hours is a long time to be talked at, and hey, don't get me wrong, I love a good discussion on the politics and power of fashion marketing, but even a millionaire would be hitting the wall of boredom.

So naturally, I did what any other human would do. I made the journey to mind-space where personal thoughts and quite often, 'to-do' lists are carved.

Post mental grocery list, I notice a peculiar scent.

"These bohemian Brunswick peeps really are big on au natural..." I think to myself.

I cross my left leg over the right, and continue to mentally asses the need for enviro-friendly dishwashing liquid to that of a generic brand.

I squirm in the warm seat and re-cross my right leg over the left, trying find a comfitable sitting position.

"Phewwww. Someone in here really needs to invest in a can of Rexona!" I secretly concede.

I look at the tutor, chatting away about target markets and demographics and such, then look to my watch.

"10 minutes until break-time...yeahhh!"

As I continue to fidget in my seat, I sigh and stare at the ground.

My eyes bulge out of my brain and my mind starts to panic as I glare at what is a mortifying lump of sweet, brown POO stuck to the inner of - god forbid - my most favourite leather flats.

"OH SHIT!" (literally).

That steaming, stinky scent I could smell over the past hour wasn't some bohemian Brusnwick babe boycotting deodorant...it was me!

(Okay, no, it wasn't me that stunk, it was a trodden-on-deposit of some scummy, Sydney Road pooch that stunk! Ahhh!)

I start to panic and pray that no one else has realised that "Late girl" endured  a social transformation to "Late-and-stinky-dog-poo girl"

Big, Bridget Jones style block letters run through my mind screaming profanities.

"FUCK! What do I do? OMG. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Mid-mind scream, the class breaks for morning tea, and like a lightening bolt, I zip out of the room faster than a Melbourne weather prediction. I take three deep breaths and make a beeline for the bathroom and barrel into an empty cubicle. With one hand pinching nose, the other clutching a wad of toilet paper, I frantically wipe away the disgusting deposit off my shoe.

After coaching myself through the dirty, vomit inducing ordeal, I subtly sneak back into the classroom. And for the rest of the tutorial, play pretend to that mornings eventful escapades.

Now I can't preach for the residents of Moreland City Council, or even Melbourne for that matter, but I have come to the conclusion that when one is walking down such an ethnically urban social scene as that of Sydney Road, all necessary steps should be taken to stare at the ground. Don't bother with your mind's friday feeling of euphoria, because the poo epidemic is everywhere - Dogs don't use toilets, and let's face it, what green-living, pro-life activist would pay a lousy ten cents for a plastic bag?

Melbourne, proceed to the path with caution!