We're almost through April. And as is typical of central Canadian spring weather, seasons tend to fall onto us, like anvils dropped from a height. A mere three weeks ago we had two feet of snow on our lawns and the only grass that showed were slim strips of sodden yellow peeking out from beneath six months of arctic fury.

Then temperatures began to creep up, sneaking in, like mice going for crumbs, lest the winter cat spy this insidious movement and pounce. Snow began to collapse on itself as the strengthening sun eased it into steady droplets; the sound of winter melting, drip-drip, and water trickling into gutters.

There exists a hiatus between the seasons, this held breath where we shift from one plane into another; where which clothing to choose remains unsteady - shirt or sweatshirt, fleece or cotton - while plastic bottles, soggy paper, and other remnants of recycling boxes lies spread over lawns and tucked into every corner where wind directed its spontaneous creations.

It's been brought to my attention that you can now hire a dog-feces collector in preparation for spring cleaning: that's right, folks. Jobs exist where you can gather up the winter's collection of turds, for a fee. I have to wonder what the prerequisites are for this kind of job? Does it bring new meaning to the term 'shit happens?' 

I braved the winter elements with my dog and our ever-faithful collection of designer doggie-do bags so that I didn't have to contend with the hiring of a poo-collector. It's always interesting to try and open a doggie-do bag with frozen fingers; those little bags that are shrink-wrapped by machine and where, no matter how many times you lick your fingertips to try and open the damned things, can never find the right end. You, dog, and turd freeze while trying to figure these things out. If you open the doggie-do bag ahead of your walk, the instant you step out the door and into the vortex, the wind captures your do-bag and transports it high into the sky like a miniature hot-air balloon. The dog then promptly does its business beside you, sans bag, and you both get to watch how physics occurs as steaming turd meets frozen ground. It always amazes me how long a dog turd can actually steam during a snow storm. It melts its own little oasis about itself, like a sordid island floating in a pool of slush. By the time you trudge back home to find another doggie-do bag, the blizzard has covered this art piece up, guaranteeing that you find it again in spring. You, or the doggie-do collection unit whom you've hired on your behalf.

Someone hurled a doggie-do bag up into a tree three winters ago. I'd read that these bags are supposed to be biodegradable. The contents are long gone, but the purple plastic bag still flaps in that tree, too high to reach, like a demented all-season flower. 

We are in that transition between winter and spring; as it drops rain and winds howl, the dog refuses to step outside to do her business (you don't expect ME to walk in that, do you?); we both make our way up the road, heads bent to the wet, me explaining to the dog that if she'd simply learn how to use a proper toilet (like cats do) we could avoid this entire scenario; then it occurs to me that, physiologically-speaking, a boxer cannot, anatomically, get onto or over a toilet. Their bow-legged, square-jawed, croissant-shaped body wasn't designed to fit over a tiny oval opening; kind of like trying to hammer a square peg into the round hole. It just ain't happening; that and the fact that boxer's are somewhat spiteful and would refuse to use the toilet (even if they could manage it) just because you EXPECT them to use it.

So, we continue to brave April's deluge; running through the rain and the emerging tulips, doggie-do bags screaming into the wind and scaring newly-arriving spring birds, to try and accomplish a basic task. And what we miss, the doggie-do turd team removal can locate and confiscate. Isn't it inspiring, the new job opportunities becoming available? Or perhaps we can give it a more exotic title, like 'scatology engineer'.