This delightful instruction for dogs, which many of them will not be able to understand because the emanating turd looks a little like a tail and dogs are notoriously colourblind, was spotted by Mr Blobz on Lower Wrensch Rd., just metres away from his very first abode in this august ‘hood, way back when Mr Blobz was a mere spotty student.
No. 56 Lower Wrensch was formerly inhabited by the regal combination of Kate, Robyn, Stove and Dogs (no relation to the four-footed kind.) Mr Blobz moved in back in the summer of 1990, a mere twenty years ago, buying the carpet Stove left behind, which was soon home to one of the most renowned flea colonies in the southern hemisphere. Dogs also left for better things at this stage, leaving Mr Blobz with Kate and Robyn for company. Even with the addition of Nicky, this proved an unsteady foursome.
One of Mr Blobz’s repressed memories from this time, when his sanity was as erratic as the pinball scores in Mr Fuckit’s corner cafe, was of a sardine lasagne prepared by a housemate who shall remain nameless.
Another memory was of the Dogshit Marathon, a unique event humbly invented by Mr Blobz himself, where, barefoot, the peron who ran around the block in a combination of the fastest time (s), subtracting the mass of dogshit (g) scraped away from his or her naked heels in grams (with g=s in value), was the winner.
Sadly, the event was never held, and, judging by the mother grundy who has forbidden canines to deposit the remnants of their torried diets on this particualr pavement, never shall be.