Caca- Segundo Capitulo

So I have already bitched and bitched about the poo poo problem on the streets of Buenos Aires – no one picks up their dog shit. Boo and hoo. Every day walking on the street is akin to a field of landmines, watching your every step as though it could be the last (well, for that pair of shoes anyway).

I thought I had all my caca issues under control. Remain vigilant, especially in the morning (what creature doesn’t drop a load between the hours of 8 and 11am?). But this week, they got me.

Of course I don’t realize it when it happens. I arrive at my slightly snooty gym (there is a snootier one a block away) and head for the elliptical. I get on and start moving, putting my ipod on and enjoying my new gym mix. And then, it beings - a musty, gaggy, repulsive, treacherous and disgusting stench. At first, I look around. Could it be the guy two machines over, sweating a tad piggishly as he huffs and puffs to nowhere? Or the woman striding with purpose up an imaginary hill? Yes, it must her. How gross I think, imaging what in the world she must have done to herself (or not done to herself) to bring such a foul odor onto all of us.

Before too long, the smell faded and I continue my sweatfest. I strolled over to the weights – arms, back, chest, those little triceps all get their due. Wiped out, I collapsed onto a mat to stretch a bit and then, it starts again. That tang, that vicious olfactory assault that had nearly killed me an hour earlier. I frantically looked around for Lady Reek, but she was nowhere to be found.

This could mean only one thing – I was Lady Reek.

Shit (literally)! I quickly look down to my lovely Adidas Supernovas (the only shoe for me, I love them) and sandwiched in the little cavities of the bottom of my sneaker is shit, shit and shit.

Shit!

I leave in embarrassment (after all, I was Lady Reek to everyone else) and when I get to the street, I begin scraping my shoe wildly against the sidewalk, like an animal with a bad itch. But the shit is just caked in after 45 minutes of cardio pounding.

Pissed off, I walk home. I take off my shoes outside the front door, carry them inside and stick them on the patio, leaving the smell for my neighbors to enjoy. What the hell did this dog eat?

I avoiding going to the gym yesterday because I just didn’t want to deal with my shitty shoes. But today, feeling brave, I put on rubber gloves, grabbed the paper towels and held my nose. Done and done, shit-free run.

Caca!

Dogs. I love them. Many of you have heard me wax poetic over the years about my darling Maxwell, a lovely dachshund whose ashes are now in a box in Delray Beach after 18 years of being waited on paw and tail.

I’m not alone. People in Latin America love their dogs too. Tons of small dogs – Yorkies, Doxies, Toy Poodles -- all nipping at your heels as you walk down the street. While the perritos are no bother to me, I have started to develop a fear of bigger dogs.

I think part of it comes from the fact that most people don’t keep their dogs on a leash. Another contributing factor is the large number of strays around town. It is actually quite horrible, as I often see dogs that are battered, bloodied and scabbed. Sometimes they lay listlessly on the sidewalk and I can’t figure out if they are dead or alive. Other times I watch in amazement as these “slumdogs” exercise the caution of a crossing guard to make it to the other side of a busy avenue.

In the tranquil neighborhood I live in now, there are not a huge number of strays and the pups are well behaved (like the people, generally). But I think my newly found fear can be traced back to a few months ago when I was literally chased by a pack of wild dogs while riding my bicycle. It was terrifying to say the least, the adrenaline coursing through my body as I pumped the pedals for dear life. As I streaked through the streets like Mario Andretti on a bicycle, the six-pack of wild dogs were howling and baring their teeth at me. I could feel the breath and saliva of a bastard German Shepherd on my heels as I put every last bit of oxygen I could find into getting away without getting rabies. Happy to report I escaped.

Stray dogs are not the only things in the street, though. There’s dog shit and lots and lots of it. Everywhere... in the nicest neighborhoods and the mas sketchito ones too. Piles of caca, little landmines everywhere just waiting for you in your new Havaianas.

Shit!