Doggie Stylin’

I’m a dog, and I’m hyper, and I like to dig and bark and roll around in stuff and, like, I’m a dog. And my friend the juicy steak that usually writes this column said I could … scratchscratchscratch … fill in this week because it noticed that every Saturday in some Johnson County editions, The Kansas City Star (hahahaha, I love the daily newspaper — love it, love it, love it — especially when I was a puppy; aaaah, the Star) runs a column written by a dog (gotta smell it, yeah!) or a cat (cocksucker) with a byline and a photo and everything. You gotta read it. The dogs are stuck in an animal shelter in Merriam called Animal Haven, and they let ’em write a column so folks can adopt ’em. (The cats are stuck, too, but why cry about it?) Anyway, the Strip said my story was way better than the ones they run in the Star, and why shouldn’t I have my own column? Oh, gotta lick myself, hang on….

I was telling the Strip that about a month ago (never forget that day; what a wonderful day), me and the other dogs were taking our human out for a walk in Budd Park. I noticed that the stone picnic pavilion with the fireplace and picnic tables where that sketchy-looking guy usually hangs out was empty this time, but I caught the most amazing scent, and I was off like a shot. Yep, sure enough, spread across the side of the pavilion was the most DEE-licious looking smear of human shit I think I’ve ever seen, and I started chowing down like there was no tomorrow, and my human just fucking went nuts. I mean, she looked at me like my mouth reeked — oh, and did it ever — and when she got me home, she scrubbed and scrubbed my yap with baking soda and peppermint oil, and she really jumped when, even after all that, I tried to lick her face.

So then, naturally, every day after that, me and the other dogs would take off straight for the stone pavilion when our human took us to Budd Park. The dumbass thought she could tempt us away with hot treats. Hell, no — I wanted more of that sweet, human craploaf. I could tell by the look on her face that my human would never understand the pure pleasure of gnawing through the dried crust of week-old shit piles to get down to the creamy center, and I not only polished off the original smear of people paté; I also tore into another big pile I found under a couple of Missouri 2005 license plates, and I sniffed out even more turdage on a grate nearby.

By this time, my human was getting pretty tired of me reeking like, well, shit, and she decided a few weeks ago to call City Hall’s Action Center to get somebody to do something about all that crap in the park. (And I’m thinking, Please no, please no — just leave it the way it is.) I was worried that the city would, like, you know, actually do something like it guarantees on its Web site (kcmo.org/manager.nsf/action/home), which promises that anyone who calls gets “departmental action” and a follow-up written response. Yikes! That sounded bad for my shit-eating fun, so I listened in when my human called the center. I don’t think she saw me taking notes.

Tired-sounding Action Woman: How can I help you?

Miss Meal Ticket: Well, I live near Budd Park, and there’s a stone pavilion in there that basically has a bunch of what appear to be piles of human shit in it. And there’s a drainage grate right next to the pavilion that has pretty much been used as a toilet, and it really stinks.

Action: OK. [Long pause]

Miss: It’s really gross. And my dogs keep trying to eat it. I think it’s probably a health hazard. It’s basically an open sewer. Do you think you could get somebody from the city to go clean it up?

Action: OK, where is this?

Miss: It’s in the stone pavilion, not the wood one, but the one that’s all made of stone, right in the middle of Budd Park.

Action: What’s the address?

Miss: It’s Budd Park. You know, that huge park in northeast Kansas City? On St. John a few blocks east of Van Brunt?

Action: Well, I need an address.

Miss: It’s a park. I don’t think it has an address.

Action: Well, what’s your address then?

Miss: [Gives an address.] But the shit isn’t at my house. It’s at the park.

Action: [Grunts]

Miss: [Sounding desperate] You know, kids play in that pavilion. Somebody could get sick.

Action: Uh, well, I’ll see what I can do.

So the next day, when I got to Budd Park, I bolted for the pavilion and worried (no, no, no — please say it’s not gone), and surprise! The city hadn’t done a damn thing, and I got to chow down again. But even better than that, a week later, all of the old piles were still aging to perfection, and a new, fresh pile of steaming turd had appeared! In fact, new land mines keep showing up, and my human’s getting pissed! The Action Center hasn’t followed up at all like it was supposed to. But this hungry dog is doin’ somersaults that the city hasn’t so much as lifted a finger about that delectable buffet in the park.

Ahhh. I’d guess the guy in the park eats a lot of sweet food.

Doughnuts, maybe.