Each pile tells a story

You'd think a morning route for a pet waste removal technician (or "poop scooper") would be pretty mundane. Pull up to a house or apartment complex, get out the rake, shovel, or broom (we use all three), walk the yard, find the piles, bag it all up, take a picture, log the work, make sure the gate's secured, and move to the next property. Technically, you'd be right.

But for me, the founder and head "dog poop lady" of UrbanTail Cleanup, a morning route tells stories. Take last Saturday. I know what those piles represent. I know the dogs. I know the people. Most are women, dog moms with their own reasons for hiring us.

First stop: a woman who's moving. Life had been overwhelming, and she was embarrassed the first time we met that she hadn't kept up with her big black dog's yard. She wasn't sure it was worth signing up when she was about to leave anyway. I told her, "Let us do a one-time cleanup. See how it feels. If you want more, we'll set you up monthly." That was three months ago. Her house is on the market now, her yard looks great, and I'm helping her sister too, my next stop.

Her sister was embarrassed at first as well. "I know there's a lot out there. I've been sick." We cleaned her up and have been coming back weekly since. After I texted her a photo of the bagged waste and the latched gate, she wrote back, "Thank you so much. I really appreciate what you do."

Then the big jobs: two doggy day cares, on opposite ends of Dallas, both run by women who care for regular day care dogs alongside fosters. On this visit, one texted back when I gave her my arrival time: "I'll miss seeing you today. One of my fosters has a vet appointment." That hit me harder than I expected, for the dog, and for the woman who shows up for these animals. Every pile in that yard was a reminder that these dogs have a safe, loving place to do their business, at least for now. Bagging up close to 50 pounds of waste, I felt oddly honored. Mine was the easy part.

Then there's my very first customer, who signed on back in January. I know her yard by heart. It's ten familiar, comforting minutes, knowing she still trusts us to show up when we say we will. (I also love the taco place near her in East Dallas, and I always look forward to lunch there.)

Last stop: my yoga teacher's house, home to her three fur babies, including a foster who'd been passed over by four different families before changing their minds. That sweet boy was always meant to be hers. He came bounding out the doggy door to greet me, then promptly left a fresh pile for me to find.

By the end of that shift, I was hot, tired, and had hauled off close to 100 pounds of dog waste. But what stayed with me weren't the piles. It was the stories: the women, and the dogs lucky enough to call these backyards home. At least for now.

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