The pomp and promenade of majestic Clydesdales and regal Quarter Horses is a parade favorite of mine. The rhythmic clomp of hooves on pavement and imperial trounce of the equine add a certain flavor to a parade that cannot be achieved by any other means.
Praises of the horse have been vocalized for years and still sung about around campfires and the like. Movies and books like "The Black Stallion," "My Friend Flicka," "Seabiscuit," "The Electric Horseman," "Black Beauty" and "The Man From Snowy River" extol the significance of stallions and steeds. Prominently and proudly the pony prances in parades, the premier emissary of the American West.
Shortly behind the stately stallions, marvelous mares and grandiose geldings follows a creature of lesser prominence. With wheelbarrow in hand and shovel atop, the lowly pooper scooper wends his way. Sinewy forearms taut with a load that is both burdensome and embarrassing. Undaunted, the scooper pushes on in search of road apples recently relieved from the south end of a northbound horse. Many would shun such a seemingly degrading form of volunteerism. However the fearless scooper is impervious to any ridicule or mockery. He chooses to instead believe, and rightly so, that what he is engaged in is of utmost importance; well, either that or their parents made them do it.
Imagine if you dare a parade without the valiant pooper scooper. The parade grand marshal astride his noble steed leading the local rodeo queen and all of her assistants, the Wells Fargo horse drawn carriage, the sheriff's mounted posse, and various other horseback riders on display down Main Street USA.
The trail in their wake would be no Hansel and Gretel crumb trail. Instead their mark would be left in the form of mountains of manure that soon would meet the shiny parade float wheels and frolicking feet of marching bands.
Main Street would be transformed from parade thoroughfare to slip-n-slide stench-o-rama. The reek and tumble of parade participants would be a sight to behold with no one there to behold it.
Spectators, gagging and cursing, would be scrambling to locate children and vehicles in a mad dash to vacate the premises while horses trot along unwittingly vacating their breakfast. With such a debacle it wouldn't take long for parades to be a thing of the past.
Ladies and gentlemen I give you the scooper,
Pooper by first name.
And although mom said not to mention such things,
Scooping poop is his game.
He comes with a smile and tall rubber boots,
A shovel gripped tight in his hands.
And though you may laugh and point at the boy
His job makes him more of a man.
He's quick with a scoop and a scrape on the road,
Nary a trace does he leave
Of horses and riders who've past here before,
Allowing our nose a reprieve.
He's unsung and dirty and smells of his work
His view leaves much to desire.
His duty is doo-dee and no doubt about it
His situation is dire.
But try as he may he can't shun the work
The manure just keeps on coming.
And were our poor scooper to run off the job
A whoopin' would be forthcoming.
Parades, they are shiny and sparkle with beauty
With sirens and candy that's thrown.
But without the scooper what's left behind
Is the dung from a Strawberry Roan.
So lift your head high as you shovel the poo
From the bowels of equines before.
It could surely be worse though I don't know how
Except ... diarrhea galore!
• Tug Gettling is director of the North Utah Valley Animal Services.
Posted in Local on Sunday, July 12, 2009 12:10 am Updated: 7:40 am.
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