Some days, like today, time and other activities conspire against long hikes with Nicholai in the hinterlands and involve instead a leash, city streets, and a plastic bag at the ready. In town, I am a responsible dog walker, which translates into picker-upper of stinky poop. But in this year since Nicholai's diagnosis with cancer, the scooping of dog-doo has taken on a whole new dimension.
Poop may not be the window to the soul, but in these days of cancer management, it is one window to Nicholai's health status. Anxious for the report on my boy's gastrointestinal well-being, I hover about. Nicholai would prefer to do his business in tall grass or hidden in bushes, but this simple privacy is violated by the leash. Hugging himself closely to a chain-link fence, he crouches for the big event, giving me a sideways glance with squinty eyes that tells me pretty clearly I should turn away and mind my own business. But I can't. I have to see.
I have become a poop monitor looking for the perfect stool. It should be just so – not too hard, not too soft. Color, texture, and size – all these attributes concern me. Is Nicholai constipated? Leaning toward diarrhea? Did he have too much calcium or too little? How about roughage – does he need more or less? I tweak his diet and supplements, depending on this output report, and I keep a lookout for red flags that might signal a downturn in his condition.
Today I breathe a sigh of relief. Nicholai's stool is just right – like Goldilocks' porridge. While Nicholai scratches the ground and looks over his shoulder at me, I scoop his perfect poop.
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