That Time Bartlet Ruined My New Year’s Resolution

A Tales from the Trail Post by Aly MacDonald

            If you’re reading this, you’re a dog person, so chances are that at some point you’ve strolled down the road holding a bag full of turds, scanning the area for the nearest waste disposal container. Carrying a used poopbag sucks—it’s like holding a small, reeking bomb, ruining your aura and casual conversations alike. Nevertheless, if you’re a responsible dog owner you'll hold that crap until you’re able to toss it into the nearest receptacle.

            Not everyone is so conscientious, however, and there are jerks among us who will leave their dog’s waste just about anywhere. Once, when I was hiking with my pooches on a bucolic trail at the top of a lovely hill, I came upon such evidence of man’s essential selfishness. Rather than carry his full poopbag down the hill, some dickhead had thrown it into a nearby tree, where it had snagged on a tall branch, out of reach. The bag itself was an ugly pink color that clearly revealed the bulging, frozen feces within.

It dangled tauntingly, like a grotesque Christmas tree ornament. Amidst the greenery and pine needles, it was an affront.

            This was the first hike of the new year, so I made a resolution, deciding that I needed to work harder at keeping our trails clean. I always carried out my pack’s waste, of course, but I resolved that from then on, I was going to take care of what others left behind, too. Starting with that smelly eyesore. New year, new me, I resolved. I could improve myself right now, start fresh with this one good deed.

            The bag was not conveniently positioned, far too high for me to reach, in a tree just off trail and surrounded by thorny bushes. Not willing to let such an obstacle get in the way of my resolve to do good, however, I spotted a long, thick stick on the ground and imagined that I could use it to reach for the bag.

            I inched closer to the tree, positioned my body over the thorny bushes, and stretched my arm up as high as it would go. Still inches short, I stuck one leg straight out behind me, rose to tiptoe on my balancing foot, and extended my arm with the stick to its full length. The jagged tip made contact with poop bag—success!—and, every muscle taut, I lifted it off the branch.

            In retrospect, I hadn’t thought this one through. Though expecting no interference while waving a stick around off-leash dogs is foolish, this action becomes utterly ludicrous when one of the dogs is Bartlet.

An adult Labrador Retriever, Bartlet is a sweet blockhead who loves challah bread, standing water, and sticks. Sticks are for this dog like a fantasy football league is to your boyfriend. He should probably be doing something else, like listening to you, but they’re so fun and distracting—and they’re everywhere!

            I had just caught the pink poop bag on the edge of my branch when this dog caught sight of me. (“Stick! My quarterback just scored!”)

            Do you know that part in Jaws when Roy Scheider thinks that the shark is dead but then it suddenly comes flying up out of the water, enormous mouth open, rows of teeth glinting? What happened next was something like that.

            I was ballerina-balancing on tiptoe when this dog leapt up out of the snow, eyes rolling, jaw snapping, slobber flying, and tore the stick out of my hands. Thrown off balance, I fell chest-first into the brambles. The poopbag, dislodged by the impact, went flying in a comically high arch farther into the woods, forever out of sight. Bartlet, having won his prize, issued a growl of elation and began whacking the stick back and forth. As I struggled on the ground—my jacket was caught in the thorns, and I had sunk into several feet of snow—he jerked the stick violently, hitting me hard in the head. Stars and chirping birds circled.

            I uttered something uncouth, and, to keep him from hitting me with the log again, I grabbed the closest end and pulled, which turned out to be my second (?) mistake of the afternoon. Bartlet loves sticks, oh yes, but he loves tug-of-war even more. As soon as he felt resistance on his new toy, he doubled down on his excitement, and pulled with every ounce of strength in him. He’s a big boy, and with one jerk he yanked the stick out of my hand, sending me flying into the snow once again. I landed hard on my back, thorns snagging in my hair and trapping me in the brambles.

            I’ll admit it, I cried a little. During the five or so minutes that it took me to untangle my hair and escape from the thorns, my other pack dogs took turns checking on me. (“Do you see the human? Oh, she’s rolling around on the ground. Let’s pee nearby!”) Bartlet, however, played enthusiastically with his new wooden club throughout the duration of my struggle.

            When I finally emerged from the bushes—soaking, cold, torn, and bruised—the others circled me, pleased that I’d finished whatever game I was playing and could continue our hike. Bartlet, it turned out, had made his own New Year’s Resolution. He put the stick down and followed me dutifully, his mouth full of bark, his tongue lolling, his mission complete.      

That poopbag is likely still wherever it landed, and it turns out that I don’t need any damn improving and neither do you.