Islington’s dog-walkers should be pooh-poohed

It is an honest word, infinitely preferable to the tiresome euphemisms of the nursery and medical professions. I make no apology for using it. It is "shit".

The basic rule of dog-walking in London is that Fido's owner picks up Fido's shit. It should be unbreakable — but is not, so it seems, in Islington, where an undercover squad of wardens is hard at work imposing the rule with fines of £80.

Why Islington, I wonder? Islington, where peculiar and particular forms of snobbery, unique in the metropolis, hold sway; Islington, where to eat Italian peasant food is fashionable and polenta is the inevitable order of the day; Islington, where only BMW, Lexus and Mercedes dare lock horns in battle for a parking space — why should the Islingtonian think it beneath his dignity to pick up dog shit?

Why should he not, like dog-walkers everywhere else, walk the streets with his pockets packed with plastic bags and paper tissues and wear shoes that, in extremis, are stout enough for kicking shit?

Most dogshit is well-formed and firm; with the hand inside a plastic bag it is easy to pick up — then reverse the bag, tie the knot and walk on; and if you are observed, then grin at the observer, for it is as neat a way as any for making friends of neighbours.

Once in a while — Fido having perhaps mopped up the remains of an entirely vegetable melanzana — his shit is squishy, and for that the paper tissues are essential (kitchen roll is best). The squeamish, too long protected by nursemaid and au pair from the related hazards of the nursery, might be well-advised to don a disposable latex glove. The shit-kicking shoes come into play when all other resources are exhausted — it is surprising how far squishy shit can be kicked into the road, there to disappear under the wheels of the first four-by-four.

There is no shame in any of this — it is simply the duty of the responsible citizen. But one more thing: if there are no dedicated dogshit bins in which to put the plastic bags, dog-walkers must take them home, for the homeless rummage in ordinary bins. The worst thing any dog-owner can do is bag the shit, then toss it into the gutter, for there it will lie impregnable, not dried to dust by heat, not washed away by rain.

If the denizens of Islington are neglecting this small responsibility, then we should have some sympathy for a local authority prepared to
hunt them down — but how effective is the hunt, and how punishing the penalty?

Twenty wardens have in six months issued an average of one penalty every two days: an income of £40 per day set against the wages of 20 men.

Surely the fine should be £800, not £80. Surely it would be infinitely cheaper to pay one man with a wheelbarrow and shovel to cruise the dogshit hotspots of the borough? Surely there is a case for photographing miscreant owners and their dogs for a sinners' page in the local paper, for what could be more humiliating for an Islingtonian?

This is a matter of decency and respect for others — do the citizens of Islington really have to be taught good manners?