Today was the day I had to pick up my dog's shit from the backyard. It had been at least three months since I last picked it up on one defrosted day in February. It was now spring and I put this loathsome chore off for far too long. It was 7:15pm on a Thursday in May. It was time.

Light was fading as I walked out into the crisp, spring air. The longer days had granted me more light than at this time the last time. I was grateful for it. It meant my "margin of error" for stepping in crap was wider. With a white kitchen garbage bag in hand, I grabbed a shovel and spot the starting point of my systematic sweep of the yard.

The sweep starts on the northeast side of the lawn. I walk west, garbage bag in my left hand, shovel, gripped at the base of the spade, in my right.

As a father of two girls and being the only male in the household, it meant that I picked up all the shit. My dog, Coach, a first generation Golden Doodle, is just a few days shy of his 10th birthday. I know what I feed him...so, having done all this for the past 10 years, I literally know his shit.

There's been green shit, blue shit and red shit...stringy shit, clumpy shit and runny shit...glitter shit, tissue paper shit and ribbon shit. All kinds of shit, in fact. You could say I'm an expert in being able to identify my dog's shit, right?

Well...today, in the fading spring light, after an especially hard day, I see some other shit.

The neighbor dog is shitting on my lawn. :/

The war begins.