With the arrival of TP, however, this fragile consensus was attacked, savagely mauled and rent asunder.38 TP, as you may well know, owns four large German shepherds and prefers – rather eccentrically – to take them on long walks on the moor in the moonlight (I say ‘them’, although so far as I am aware she only ever walks one dog at any given time39). These four large dogs are usually kept confined inside a concrete ‘compound’40 in the back garden of Hursley End – her dilapidated bungalow on Lamb’s Green.
It was initially – she insists – due to the difficulties she experienced in negotiating/avoiding random dog faeces during these night-time hikes that her bizarre habit of bagging other people’s dogs’ faeces and leaving them deposited on branches, walls and fence posts – apparently as a warning/admonishment to others less responsible than herself – commenced.41 This activity continued for upwards of six months before anyone either commented on it publicly or felt the urge to root out/apprehend the strange individual in our midst who had inexplicably chosen to enact this ‘special service’ on our behalf.42
Given the idiosyncratic nature of the bags employed (TP prefers a small, pink-tinged, transparent bag43 – probably better adapted for household use, i.e. freezing meat44 – instead of the usual, custom-made, matt-black kind45) it was easy, from very early on, to understand that the person bagging up and ‘displaying’ these faeces was not only happy, but almost keen to leave some kind of ‘signature’ behind.
When the bags were eventually identified as belonging to none other than TP (and she was calmly – very sensitively – confronted with her crimes), rather than apologizing, quietly retreating, or putting a summary halt to her bizarre activities, she responded – somewhat perversely – by actively redoubling her poop-gathering efforts! In fact she went still one stage further! She began to present herself in public46 as a wronged party, as a necessary – if chronically undervalued – environmental watchdog, as a doughty, cruelly misunderstood moral crusader, standing alone and defenceless – clutching her trademark, transparent poo-bag to her heaving chest – against the freely defecating heathen marauder!
And it gets worse! She then went on the offensive (see Docs. 3+4 – copies of letters sent to the local press), angrily accusing the general body of responsible dog owners in Burley Cross of actively destroying the picturesque and historic moor by encouraging our animals to ‘evacuate’47 there.
One occasion, in particular, stands out in my mind. I met her – quite by chance – on a sunny afternoon, overburdened by shopping from the village store48. I offered to take her bags for her and during the walk back to her home took some pains to explain to her that there was no actual legal requirement for dog owners to collect their dog’s faeces from the surrounding farm and moorland (The Dogs Fouling of Land Act, 1996). Her reaction to this news was to blush to the roots of her hair, spit out the word ‘justifier!’, roughly snatch her bags from me49 and then quote, at length, like a thing possessed (as if reciting some ancient biblical proverb50) from the (aforementioned) EnCams publication on the subject.51
To return to this useful document for just a moment, in Dog Fouling and the Law, EnCams provide an invaluable ‘profile of a dog fouler’ (p. 4 – when you read it for yourself you will discover that it is an extremely thorough and thought-provoking piece of analysis). Apparently the average ‘fouler’ enjoys watching TV and attending the cinema but has a profound mistrust of soap opera, around half of them have internet access – mainly at home – but ‘are not particularly confident in its usage’, and they are most likely to read the Sun and Mirror (but very rarely the Daily Mail or the Financial Times).52
EnCams have invented their own broad label to describe these irresponsible individuals: they call them ‘justifiers’, i.e. they justify their behaviour on the grounds of a) Ignorance (‘I didn’t realize it was a problem…’ ‘But nobody has ever mentioned this to me before etc.) and b) Laziness (‘But nobody else ever picks it up, so why should I?’).
EnCams insist that these ‘justifiers’ will only ever openly admit that they allow their dog to foul in public when placed under extreme duress. Their fundamental instinct is to simply pretend it hasn’t happened or to lie about it.
Although I cannot deny that this profile is both interesting and – I don’t doubt – perfectly valid in many – if not most – instances, TP was nevertheless entirely wrong to try and label me – of all people – with this wildly inappropriate nomenclature: I am neither ignorant, lazy nor in denial. Quite the opposite, in fact. I am informed, proactive and socially aware. And although I do dislike soaps,53 I very rarely go to the cinema,54 and my computer skills are – as this letter itself, I hope, will attest – universally acknowledged to be tip-top.
Since my acquisition of the EnCams document I have tried – countless times – to explain to TP (see Doc. 5 + Doc. 6: some valuable examples of our early correspondence) that not only am I a keen advocate of poop-scooping in residential areas and public parks, but that it shows absolutely no moral or intellectual inconsistency on my part to hold that allowing excrement to decompose naturally on the moor is infinitely more environmental than bagging it up and adding it, quite unthinkingly, to this small island’s already chronically over-extended quantities of landfill. I have also told her that by simply bagging up the faeces she finds and then dumping them, willy-nilly, she is only serving to exacerbate the ‘problem’55 because the excrement cannot be expected to decompose inside its plastic skin. Rather than helping matters she is actually making them infinitely worse – once bagged, the excrement is there forever: a tawdry bauble – a permanent, sordid testament to the involuntary act of physical evacuation!
As you will no doubt be aware, around two months ago Wharfedale’s dog warden – the ‘criminally over-subscribed’56 Trevor Horsmith – was persuaded57 to start to take an interest in the problems being generated by TP’s activities on the moor. It will probably strike you as intensely ironic that TP herself was one of the main instigators in finally involving Trevor in this little local ‘mess’ of ours.58
After familiarizing himself with the consequences of TP’s ‘work’ (on the moor and beyond59) Horsmith announced (I’m paraphrasing here60) that while he fully condoned – even admired!61 – TP’s desire to keep the moor clean, it was still perfectly legitimate for dog owners to allow their pets to defecate there, and that while excrement could not, in all conscience, be calibrated as ‘litter’ (it decomposes for heaven’s sake! Same as an apple core!) once it has been placed inside plastic (no matter how laudable the motivation62) then it must necessarily be considered so.63
Horsmith’s pronouncement on this issue was obviously the most devastating blow for TP (and her cause), yet it by no means prompted her to desist from her antisocial behaviour. By way of an excuse for (partial explanation of/attempt to distract attention from) her strange, nocturnal activities, she suddenly changed tack and began claiming (see Doc. 6 again, last three paras) that – for the most part – whenever she goes on walks she generally bags up the vast majority of the faeces she finds and disposes of them herself (‘double-wrapped’, she writes – somewhat primly – inside her dustbin, at home64) and that on the rare occasions when she leaves the bags behind it is either because a) the ‘problem’ (as she perceives it) is so severe that she feels a strong, public statement needs to be made to other dog owners, b) the sheer volume of excrement is such that it is simply too much for her to carry home all in one go (while managing a large dog at the same time), and c) that she is sometimes prey to the sudden onset of acute arthritic ‘spasms’ in her fingers, which mean that she is unable to grip the bags properly and so is compelled to leave them in situ, while harbouring ‘every earthly intention’ of returning to collect them at a later date.
I am not – of course – in any way convinced by this pathetic, half-cocked hodge-podge of explanations. In answer to a) I say that other dog owners are completely within their rights to allow their dogs to defecate responsibly on the moor. They have the
law on their side. It is a perfectly legitimate and natural way to proceed. In answer to b) I say that the volume of excrement on the moor is rarely, if ever – in my extensive experience of these matters – excessive (especially given the general rate of decomposition etc.). In answer to c) I say that it strikes me as rather odd that the same person who can apparently manage to ‘bag up’ huge quantities of excrement when their fingers are – ahem – ‘spasming’65 is somehow unable to perform that superficially much less arduous act of transporting it back home with them!66
Many of TP’s bags lie around on the moor for months on end and no visible attempt is made to move them. Last Thursday, for example, I counted over forty-two bags of excrement dotted randomly about the place on my morning stroll. Sometimes I come across a bag displayed in the most extraordinary of places. Yesterday I found one dangling up high in the midst of a thorny bush. It was very obvious that not only would the person who hung the bag there have been forced to sustain some kind of injury in its display (unless they wore a thick pair of protective gloves), but that so would the poor soul (and here’s the rub!) who felt duty-bound to retrieve it and dispose of it.67 This was, in effect, a piece of purely spiteful behaviour – little less, in fact, than an act of social/ environmental terrorism.
Shoshana and I have both become so sickened, angered and dismayed by the awful mess TP has made of our local area (I mean who is to judge when an activity such as this passes from being ‘in the public interest’68 to a plain and simple public nuisance?69) that, in sheer desperation, we have begun to gather up the rotten bags ourselves.
On Friday, two weeks back70, Shoshana gathered up over thirty-six bags. On her way home – exhausted – from the village’s poop-scoop bins71 she tripped on a crack in the pavement, fell heavily, sprained her wrist and dislocated her collarbone. 72 I will not say that we blame TP entirely for this calamity, but we do hold her at least partially responsible.73
After Shoshana’s ‘accident’ I marched over to TP’s bungalow, fully intent on having it out with her,74 but TP (rather fortuitously) was nowhere to be found. It was then – as I stood impotently in her front garden, seething with frustration – that I resolved75 to take the opportunity to do a little private investigation of my own. If you remember,76 TP had claimed that many – if not most – of the bags of excrement she retrieved from the moor, she automatically carried back home with her (only leaving the unmanageable excess behind) and placed them, double-wrapped, into her dustbin (alongside what I imagine would be the considerable quantities of excrement collected from her own four, chronically obese dogs which – as you know – she keeps penned up, 24/7,77 inside that criminally small and claustrophobic, purpose-built concrete compound78).
The day I visited Hursley End was a Monday, which is the day directly before refuse is collected in the village. I decided – God only knows why, it was just a random urge, I suppose – to peek inside her dustbin (literally deafened as I did so by the hysterical barks and howls of her four frantic German shepherds). By my calculation, I estimated that there would need to be at least forty-two dog faeces – from her own four animals – stored away inside there.79 In addition to these I also envisaged a considerable number of stools collected from her nightly hikes on the ‘filthy’ moor.80
Once I’d made these quick calculations I steeled myself, drew a deep breath, grabbed the lid, lifted it high and peered querulously inside. Imagine my great surprise when I found not a single trace of excrement within! The bin was all but empty! I say again: the bin – TP’s bin – was all but empty!! I quickly pulled on a pair of disposable gloves81 and then gingerly withdrew the bin’s other contents, piece by piece (just so as to be absolutely certain of my facts). I removed two large, empty Johnnie Walker bottles,82 four family-size Marks and Spencer coleslaw containers, three packets of mint and one packet of hazelnut-flavoured Cadbury’s Snaps biscuit wrappers, and the stinking remnants of two boil-in-the-bag fish dinners (Iceland) and one, ready-made, prawn biryani meal (from Tesco’s excellent Finest range).
I stared blankly into that bin for several minutes, utterly confounded, struggling to make any sense of what I’d discovered. It then slowly dawned on me that TP might actually have two bins – one of which was specifically to be used for the storing of excrement. Bearing this in mind, I set about searching the untended grounds of her property83 with a fine-tooth comb,84 even going so far as to climb on to an upturned bucket and peer, trepidatiously, into the tiny concrete compound to the rear, where TP’s four German shepherds barked and raced around – like a group of hairy, overweight banshees – frantic with what seemed to be a poignant combination of terror and excitement.85
No matter how hard I hunted, a second bin could not be found. I eventually abandoned my search on realizing how late it had grown;86 Shoshana would definitely be worried, I thought, and if I tarried any longer I could be in serious danger of missing Countdown.87 I left Hursley End, depressed and confused, only turning – with a helpless half-shrug – to peer back over towards the property once I’d reached the relative safety of the road beyond. It was then, in a blinding flash, that I had what I now refer to – somewhat vaingloriously, I’ll admit – as my ‘Moment of Epiphany’.88
As I looked back at TP’s property from a greater distance, I was able – with the benefit of perspective – to observe that recent renovation works to the bungalow had resulted in the temporary removal of large sections of the external fascia,89 so that all that now remained of the property’s original structure was the roof, the window frames and a series of basic, internal walls and supports, many of which had been copiously wrapped in thick layers of protective plastic (to safeguard the property against the worst of the weather, I suppose). By dint of this expedient, I suddenly realized with a sharp gasp, TP’s home had lately been transformed (voluntarily or otherwise) into a giant simulacrum of a monstrous, semi-transparent poo-bag!90
As this – admittedly strange and somewhat hysterical – thought caught a hold of me, a second thought,91 running almost in tandem with it, quickly overtook my mind: if no evidence of excrement could be found in TP’s garden – not even faeces from her own four dogs – then where on God’s earth might it actually be…?
What?!
I suddenly froze.
‘MARY, MOTHER OF JESUS!’ I bellowed, then quickly covered my mouth with my hand.92 But wasn’t it obvious?! Hadn’t the simple answer to this most perplexing of questions been staring me in the face all along?!
The moor!
Our beautiful, unbesmirched, virgin moor!
TP had not – as she’d always emphatically maintained – been piously and dutifully collecting/bagging excrement left by other, irresponsible dog owners, during those long, dark, nightly hikes of hers. Oh no! Quite the opposite, in fact! TP had actually been carefully bagging prodigious quantities of HER OWN FOUR DOGS’ EXCREMENT and then CHEERFULLY FESTOONING THE LOCAL FOOTPATHS WITH IT!!!
‘Good Lord!’ I can almost hear you howl, your smooth, firm cheeks flushed pink with rage and indignation. ‘But… but why?’
I’m afraid that this is a question which – for all of my age and experience – I cannot answer. I can only imagine that TP must derive some sick and perverse feeling of excitement/ gratification from performing this debased act. Perhaps it is an entirely sexual impulse, or maybe she has some deep yet inexplicable grudge against the people of Burley Cross which she is ‘acting out’ through this strange and depraved pastime. Or perhaps the good people of this village have unwittingly come to ‘represent’ something (or someone) to TP from her tragic past and she feels the uncontrollable urge to punish/ insult/degrade us all as a consequence of that. Or maybe – just maybe – a whole host of entirely different impulses are at play here. Shoshana had the fascinating idea that as a small child TP might’ve developed ‘issues’ during her anal phase93 brought on by an overly strict and prohibitive potty-training regimen. She discussed this idea with a neighbour of ours who might properly be called an ‘expert’
in the field, and they explained to her – at some length – how as children we have an innocent, perfectly natural conception of our own faeces as a kind of ‘gift’94 which we generously share with our parents.
Shoshana wondered whether TP’s emotional/psychological development as a child was halted/blocked at this critical stage, leading to an unusual fixation with faeces in adult life, which, many decades later, still gives TP the childlike compulsion to ‘share’ this ‘precious’ substance with all of her friends and neighbours.95
Whatever the real reasons for TP’s extraordinary behaviour, the hard fact remains that she is currently posing a serious threat to the health and safety of the general public and must be stopped as a matter of some urgency. To this end I sent a lengthy email to Trevor Horsmith, insisting that he take some kind of positive action to deter TP from her foul and aberrant path.
Horsmith,96 while professing himself to be ‘very interested’ in my theories, calmly informed me that unless he was able to catch TP red-handed (transporting faeces from her home and depositing them on the moor) then he would be unable to take any kind of prohibitive action against her. Given that TP prefers to walk only after dark and Trevor Horsmith’s working hours finish promptly at five, the likelihood of this ever happening is – at best, I feel – extremely limited. Horsmith also went on to discourage me – and in no uncertain terms,97 either – from taking any kind of independent action myself, claiming that a matter this sensitive was – I quote – ‘always better left in the hands of qualified professionals’.98
So there you have it, Ms Withycombe: a detailed summary of the complex web of problems our small – but perfectly formed – village is currently struggling to grapple with. Call me a foolish old optimist (if you must!), but I have a strong presentiment that your input in this matter will prove most beneficial, and am keenly looking forward to bashing out some kind of joint plan of action with you at the start of the New Year.
Burley Cross Postbox Theft Page 4