Weary as a lizard

I am tired. Seriously tired.

When I hear it in my head, though, it sounds like it does in the parts of America where it comes out “Tarred. Ah'm tarred.”

“Ah'm tarred” brings me a picture, likely from John Ford's movie version of 'The Grapes of Wrath.” Dust and dirt piled on top of the simple presence of fatigue... tarred.

Yet, it also brings about a sense of tired that initially seems to be 180 degrees from tarred, yet, to me, it is not.

I once played a part in a production of Tom Stoppard's amazing play, “Rosenkrantz and Guildernstern are Dead.” At one point one of the lead players review the space around him and the other players in it and declares himself “Wary as a lizard.”

Only, he couldn't do it. This particular actor couldn't say wary as it should have been said but had pretty much nailed his pronunciation of weary. A line designed to declare a character particularly on edge and looking for secrets, became a line proclaiming the character out of steam and looking for someplace to lay down.

If this were not an important point in the play, we could certainly have muffled the line, had someone cough over it, or otherwise color it in a way that would let audience members more or less get the gist. But it was an important moment, so every effort was made to get the pronunciation right. The actor was not stupid, au contraire. He had the part nailed. But as this wary/weary thing failed to be resolved, his confidence waned and we had bigger issues.

As only certain dogs will hear a certain pitch from a pipe, everyone in and around that moment finally decided they heard the dog whistle, the message from which was, “The heck with it. Act like he said something close to correct and then move on.”

Amongst a couple of my friends, “Weary as a lizard” came to mean a type of fatigue that defies understanding. And that's where I am now. I am tired. Tarred. Wary. Weary.

The struggle that is going on right now, which may in fact be at the base of this feeling “Weary as a lizard,” is this: It's the fight between what's true and matters versus what's true and matters right now.

I can't help it that the laundry needs to be done... again, and I'm the only one, from a practical standpoint, that can do it. I don't have the energy right now! Same with taking the trash to the dump. I know it needs to be taken. I know that for a fact. What I cannot do, is work up the desire to make taking the trash to the dump seem like something that would be worth the effort.

The chest pains... the latest ones that I battle with now... I believe are caused by deep-seated stress. It happened when I was first put on chemo. We didn't know what the pain was about, but eventually realized it was caused by stress at a deeper lever.

That sort of pain is made up of a bunch of tricky little bastards. There you are all stalwart and bracing against the pain, when one of these little worries gets in a shot and scores a hit on your defense. The another and another. Pretty soon you've had three palpable hits, rendering pain, fatigue and stress and not one blow was worth even mentioning.

Tarred.

Ah'm tarred of having cancer. Ah'm tired of poor Sheri having to get around on only one good leg, never quite knowing what, if any movement, might set her recovery back. Ah'm tired of having to revisit problems I thought were already settled. We just got a bill for one of my chemotherapy medications that I had spent a fair amount of time making sure we wouldn't be billed for. So, back to the phones.

While being tarred is far from the worse thing, it does drain your soul... drop by drop, until you realize you're down a quart and that particular refill comes hard.

So, as I leave you for this week. That's where I am. Soul weary, or as my actor friend might say, soul wary.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

Life in the House at Poo Corner

You've had periods of time when everything seemed to be going wrong, right? I mean everything.

As it mounts up, you might have found yourself comparing yourself to Job in the Bible, maybe? It's easy enough to happen. You have a number of things go wrong, add a soupcon of self-pity and a dash of why me? And voila- Just like Job.

But what happens if someone else takes a look at what's going on in your life and they declare “You're situation is positively Jobian...Jovian? Just like Job in the Bible.” That's a little different, don't you think?

The other day a number of Sheri's friends came out to the house, to keep her company and to cheer her up. By the time they left, they were shaking their heads and Sheri was in tears, all be it briefly.

You may recall that I had written about our toilet not flushing... Well, we actually had to replace it in the end. We got it prior to the weekend, but could not get a plumber to install it until Monday. This meant that Sheri's friends had to use the one upstairs.

Well, lo and behold, the pipes upstairs had frozen, which even I, complete non-plumber that I am, knew was bad. Until this point, I had been resting in the downstairs bedroom because I didn't feel especially well, and, besides, I like to give Sheri and her friends some privacy. But the amount of noise generated by the fact that the pipes had frozen made it difficult to try to remain oblivious.

But then I heard, “We could probably get at the problem if we did some drilling, or maybe cut through some drywall.”

You see, knowing the players as I do, I thought it unlikely that the person who said that was joking, so I felt compelled to get up off may quasi-sick bed to declare, “No! No drilling. No drywall cutting!”

It was somewhere in here that Sheri started to cry. We'd had so many things piled on our plate, not the least of which were her broken leg and ankle and my having to go back on chemotherapy, that the frozen pipes were just one thing too many.

Also in here somewhere is where our friend Wanda June (not her real name) said, approximately: “You know. As a basically partial outside observer, I give you permission to compare your plight to Job in the Bible. You seem to have had an inordinate amount of tests thrown at you in a very short period of time.” True dat.

Soon enough, it was time for everyone to go, except Sheri and me who would continue to live in the House at Poo Corner for the foreseeable future. But then we had pause to consider: “Could these Job-ian type of curses be catching? Could the misery be shared? A problem shared is a problem halved?”

Maybe so. Because, when it came time for Wanda June to leave, she was unable to navigate the ice on our driveway. Well, she did get past that, only to end up at the bottom of our fire road with no hope of getting back up it, even as far as our driveway, of which the being stuck in didn't seem so bad by that point if I may convolute my syntax.

But here's the thing... We called AAA and they came and helped Wanda June. Our friend Hank (not his real name and not the first name I gave him for column purposes. It will have to do, though, because I have other fish to fry, and forgot what the first one was and don't have the inclination to look it up) came and helped us get our pipes unfrozen. He also carried the new toilet in from the car because the temperature was supposed to dip below zero and we were afraid it might crack, given how everything else was going.

 

With a new toilet on the horizon, unfrozen pipes and Wanda June well on her way... I realized something surprising about these patches of horrible circumstance we all go through at one time or another. As each one ceases to be a problem, you get a little buzz of happiness around the fact that it isn't a problem any more.

I certainly wouldn't go so far as to say let's pile on the problems because it's so good when they stop. But, I will say that looking at it that way made me feel much better.

One last thing. In this midst of all this trial and tribulation, it was my friend Not-His-Real-Name Walter who summed the whole thing up perfectly: “Wow. That's Biblical! The Book of Johns.” Well said, Walter, well said, sir.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

What's THAT all about, Alfie?

So. I'm just sitting here thinking about having cancer.

For a while there, I could honestly say that wasn't something I thought all that much about. But, since my multiple myeloma has been active again, it's something I find myself doing again. Mind you, there are times when the myeloma makes my bones hurt and it's hard not to think about it. Likewise, when I feel truly nauseous. But there are times, like now, when I simply wonder, “What's THAT all about, Alfie?”

For example, would I have been better off, in the long run, not to have had the period we call remission where the disease wasn't visible in my blood work? That's sort of a trick question, I think, because I was quite nauseous much of that time with stomach issues, so, it wasn't as if I was living large through that time.

Still, having cancer is about a lot more than simply not feeling well. So would it have been better if we hadn't had that “quiet” period? Good question.

I think for my friends and family it was a very good thing. It let them have some time off, kinda. When they knew it wasn't there, causing further damage, that was a good thing

For me? I'm not really sure. I guess as I went to monthly appointment after monthly appointment and received glowing reports about how well I was doing; how terrific my blood work looked... During that time period, I think it was good.

It's no one's fault but my own, if fault is the correct word, that I started to believe it might not come back. The logical, informed portion of my brain knew that wasn't true, but a guy can hope, can't he?

Anyway, here I am trying to remain positive... again, and I guess it's no harder this time than the last. It is different, though. When a cure isn't possible, having the cancer go away, at least for a while, becomes your wish. Now, I know that even that is something of a false hope. The next time it goes away, and I believe there will be a next time, I know I would be more cautious about getting caught up in hype; enjoy it, yes, but don't trust it to last.

One of the constants about cancer, I've found, is that, no matter what else, life goes on. Sheri and I are on a run of tough times right now. My cancer is back. She fell and broke her leg in three places. Our bathroom toilet isn't working.

In the grand scheme of things, which of those would you pick to cause the most immediate distress? You betcha. No toilet. It has led to a number of schemes for us, all of which have given us new appreciation for modern toilets. As always, we manage, but it would be better if we didn't have to.

It would be nice to given a free pass on all those sorts of little vagaries of life by saying, “But, I have cancer.” Or, “But I have... whatever other difficult problem you find yourself facing.” Of course, then you face the question of setting the standard. “I have cancer” is probably more deserving of a pass than “I have four overdue library books,” but is it more deserving than “I have chronic back pain”?

Like all of those types of things, it's a fool's game. Life is life and that's all there is to it. If we take a look at our life... I mean, really look at the entirety of it, we're going to find more good than bad, with a huge helping of “just okay” and some “not so bad” thrown in.

The difficult times doubtless seem to be larger in number because they take so long to pass, or at least that's how it feels. Happiness, joy and all the good bits can be fleeting. It's what makes it more important to hold on to them and really take your time with them.

And in the end, consider this: the song, “Happy Days Are Here Again,” was written in 1929, and first recorded in November of that same year, less than two months after the stock market crash that would lead to the Great Depression. I'm just sayin'.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

Well, that's not exactly what I wanted to hear

My cancer is back.

Actually, since it's incurable, I guess it was never really gone. But it was not actively making my life difficult. And now it is... again.

I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was when my doctor told me my proteins were elevated, which indicated the remission was over. I mean, I've written here any number of times that on one of these Fridays when I went in for my blood work, he was going to tell me my cancer was back.

And this last Friday was it.

Here's the thing, though. Yes, I knew it was going to back some day, I just didn't expect it to be that day. It's not as if my blood work had been just OK over the last few months. Not at all. My doctor was beyond delighted with what he was seeing, and kept raving about how terrific things looked.

Well, I must admit, after a few months of that, I let my guard down. Maybe I figured my multiple myeloma would sneak back, a little at a time, and I could be ready. But, it was no one's fault that I was surprised by the news. The doctor even said, at one point, that that was why we refer to it as incurable, with no guarantees that remission would be forever.

On top of all that, I have the chromosome 17p deletion issue that I was told would affect any remission. The deleted piece is designed to manage things like my cancer treatment, and, without it there, stuff happens.

So, here we are again. As I was driving home from the clinic, with the news still a secret between my doctor and me, I realized there was a heavy sense of deja vu all over again.

I would have to find a way to break the news to Sheri. There were our kids to be told and a number of friends who needed to be told personally... just like the first time. It wasn't necessarily easier for having done it before, it was... well... different is all. We all know so much more than we did the first time around that it is easier to talk about, somewhat, and easier to separate the words and medical terms we need from those we don't.

So, everyone is as OK with it as we could expect them to be. I mean, what are you supposed to say when someone tells you their cancer is back? The teller has the advantage of knowing what is coming. The tellee can only take the hit and respond as best they can. Everyone feels bad, of course, and I wish they didn't. Even more than the first time, I know what Sheri and I are up against and I know many of the things we need to do to come out on top in this deal.

The majority of bits remain as they were: having cancer still sucks, the feeling of powerlessness remains strong, there's still no point in asking why me, there's still a fight to be fought.

One of the things I had (mercifully) forgotten was the busy-ness of cancer. The biggest part of that so far is, how are we going to attack it this time? We quickly decided it would be, at least at first, with the oral chemotherapy I had been taking before. It made me nauseous, so we're starting with the smallest dose.

Once that was decided, we had to figure out how to pay for it. It's very expensive and the co-pays we were going to be responsible for were considerable. We immediately made some phone calls and arranged for the financial assists we would need.

Then there's the re-certification process to be endured. Because I hadn't taken this medicine in quite a while, I had to be re-educated on how dangerous it was and the conditions under which I had take it.

And on, and on, and on. We'd forgotten how much went into fighting cancer, and how much of it had to be done on the phone. Oy.

So, after 135 posts about looking for the pony, there is a sense of being back at the beginning. But, we aren't, of course. We're stronger and much more aware of what it is we are up against. We are also very aware of the tools we have to use in the fight, including the hundreds of prayers we get from you. Thanks for sticking with us. We knew you were going to be back to the fore. And here you are!

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

Love means never having to say, “Get it yourself”

Caring for someone is a tough job.

And I don't mean, “Honey, I care for you;” “Honey, I love you so much;” “Honey, you mean so much to me.”

I mean, “Honey, can you bring the laptop over here?;” “Honey, would you mind getting me a cup of coffee?;” “Honey, could you get me a clean sock for my other foot?”

Yeah. That kind of caring.

I AM NOT complaining. Am I? I don't mean to. Seriously... how could I possibly complain about filling the every need of a woman who has been helping me deal with cancer for over two years? Wait. Don't answer that.

In dealing with Sheri's broken leg, broken ankle, sprained knee, I have discerned two distinct stages.

The first stage was all about the injury and the pain Sheri was experiencing... which was a lot. I was really scared for her. She had obviously really hurt herself and we had to get her to the hospital. Once there, I was anxious to be supportive and make sure she got the help she needed. I had to make sure I understood the instructions for her care and feeding, and then get her home and situated as comfortably as I could, which turned out to be not very much.

There she was biting down on a stick and taking Tylenol, and there I was sort of... well, being around, maybe hovering, just to be sure I could help if needed. Also, I needed to make absolutely sure she didn't fall again, in any way, shape or form.

First stage, part two, was virtually the same. She had surgery on her foot. The doctor added a steel plate, a number of pins and a 7-pound cast to Sheri's considerable attributes. The weight of the cast was an approximation based on Sheri putting her foot on a scale. I tried to tell her, with the rest of her at least somewhat attached through her leg, it wouldn't be accurate. Those of you who have talked to a woman giving birth can guess how well that went. So, seven pounds it is.

Stage two has a mainly different set of challenges. There's no adrenalin left to provide a little fuel when you're getting tired. There's no sense of being... not heroic, really, of stepping into the breach like the 300 gladiators... It's more like being one of the 101 Dalmatians, trying not to step on anyone else's ears.

Stage one is all flash, with little substance; attending to the moment because it really matters. There's a need to act, and pretty much to act right now! There's no time to think; no time to consider yourself and how you might be feeling. It's all pretty visceral.

Stage two is all substance and no flash. Yes, there's a need to act, but most of the time the only thing that makes it important to act quickly is Sheri's comfort. Which, speaking honestly, leaves plenty of time to think of my comfort. After all, thinking about me and what I want is one of my favorite things. In the land of the caregiver, this can be a problem.

Fortunately, my wife is far from demanding. But when you break one of your important pieces of transportation equipment, there are a world of things that you simply can't manage by yourself.

I've been aided in this phase by the fact that I pretty much wait on my wife hand and foot everyday, anyway. (Insert rude riposts and cat calls here.) And by waiting on hand and foot, I don't mean that in a bad way. I enjoy doing things for my wife, mostly. And she enjoys doing things for me. I just get more opportunities in the average day than she does. The more I write about this, the worse I'm going to look as both a husband and a human being, so let me get back to the point.

I think stage two is tougher, really. When Sheri was hurt and in pain, doing what needed to be done was a no brainer. When I've already made four trips to various parts of the house without a stop in between, “Could you please get me a cup of coffee?” becomes a testing moment. Not a, “Why don't you get it yourself moment,” but, “Really? Coffee? It can't wait?”

But then I look at this amazing woman, whom I truly do love; who has been right with me through two of the toughest years of my life, filling my needs and doing things I can't do for myself, and just get her the coffee, or the sock, or her cell phone, or her nail file, or the cough drops, or the pad and paper, or the drink of water, or her Chapstick or....”

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

You've Got a Friend, but Sheri has more

In case you missed last week's post: my wife, Sheri, fell off a chair and broke her leg, her ankle and sprained her knee.

What was she doing up on a chair? That, brothers and sisters, is not really open for discussion given that shortly before she fell Sheri was wondering about the advisability of being up on a chair doing what she was doing,

We were actually winterizing some windows, an act that was way overdue. We didn't expect a reward for finally getting to it, but a punishment like this seems a bit excessive.

It's been strange around our house since it happened. Sheri is pretty much confined to the sofa, with her beverages and electronic devices around her. My job is to hang loose and fill her every waking need.

Now, in the wrong hands, that could be a real pain-in-the-butt sort of thing. But, I must say, Sheri has not been having me deliver her bon bons one at a time,,, as a matter of fact, I haven't seen a bon bon since long before this happened. When she asks for something, it's a genuine need and she tries to bunch her requests so that the amount of up and down, and back and forth I need to do is less.

Still, if you think about how dependent we are on our feet and legs for getting about and reaching our stuff, it still comes out to a lot, and I do it gladly. She has been living with me and my cancer for over two years; two weeks doesn't seem like much in comparison. And it isn't.

But part of the strangeness I've been feeling revolves around my having cancer. I really have to be careful how much I do. Fortunately, it hasn't been much of a problem so far. I can fetch as good as any loyal family dog, and I can help with position changes as well, which covers the bulk of the requests so far.

We do have friends for the more involved things. When Sheri had to visit the surgeon to determine the amount of damage, and how the surgery would be managed, our friend Rita (not her real name) took her and brought her back, and another friend, Rip (not his real name either), carried her to and from the car. I was absolutely worn out. I absolutely hated not being able to be the one to take her. I know that sounds very caveman-like... me drag mate to healer then me drag back. And that's why I let Rita do it. I can't afford to get run down and sick.

Speaking of which- Sheri and been telling me to be careful that I don't trip over this or that; or move that thing so you don't fall; or make sure your shoelaces are tied when you leave the house. (I guess that probably needs further explanation but I'm not giving it.) My thought, naturally, was that she was concerned that, having just broken her leg, she didn't want me to do the same; that she didn't want me to experience the pain that she was.

Well, after further review, I realized that might have been part of it, but, more, I think, than that... if I fall down and break something, we're screwed. Having cancer is one thing- I can still fetch. Being laid up with a broken something and cancer means there's no one but Wolfie, our cat, and fetching isn't one of his best things. In truth, it isn't even one of his things.

It's also strange to see that Sheri has more friends than me. I'm not complaining, just admitting the truth. The phone rings constantly... for her. People are always trying to come out to the house with groceries... for her. And now they're offering to bring cooked meals; cooked groceries, in other words, for her.

To show you what the pain and stress of two ill people doing the best they can to help each other while trying to remain positive can do, witness the following exchange:

Sheri: That's nice that she's willing to bring out the chili.

Me: Yeah. Your friends are way cooler than mine.

Sheri: Look at all the cards, emails, notes, prayers that people have given you.

Me: Yeah. But none of it's food now, is it?

In true fairness, I suppose I should point out that I almost never have my phone on and let it go to voice mail when it does ring, unless it's a doctor calling. As something of a spinoff from the age-old, “Does this dress make me look fat?” question, may I ask, “Does all this grousing make me seem small?”

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

The leg bone's connected to the ankle bone?? Well...

We had to rush to the emergency room the other night, and it wasn't for me.

Normally you'd think that would register a “Yes! Not me!! Outstanding!!!” on the “Thank You Lord Scale of Personal Mishaps,” and, normally, you'd be right. But since it was Sheri we had to get to the hospital? It was more like a 10 on the “Why Didn't This Happen to me instead?” measuring device.

So, what happened? We were winterizing the windows in the living room... Let me pause to say that what happened is an offshoot of my firm belief that no good deed goes unpunished. We were trying to be conscientious and fiscally careful, which is like a good deed, and... Sheri was standing on a chair to reach. I had my back turned to her as I worked on my side, and there was a huge bang/crash, and I turned around to find Sheri lying on the floor. She didn't look like it had been part of the winterizing plan.

She laid there for a couple of minutes- at her request- and then said it really, really hurt. My wife has an amazing tolerance for physical pain, so the fact that she used two reallys really worried me.

Her ankle swelled up almost instantly and turned a variety of colors not seen since Joseph's Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Let me pause again... Though in this retelling, I'm applying my amazing talent for humorous turn of phrase- believe me, at the time I was just truly scared. But scared is boring, so...

It was obvious we had to get her to the emergency room and that's what we did. There was a horrific storm a-blowin' and a-rainin', but at least it wasn't snow. What she had to go through just to get her to the car would have made many a man weep, including this one, but there was nary a tear. Of course, it was raining so hard I wouldn't have known, but I know.

We got her to the emergency room, into a wheelchair, up the ramp, through intake and into a room. We apparently arrived right ahead of what the nurse called the post-dinnertime rush, so Sheri was immediately whisked off to x-ray and back.

Verdict: broken ankle on her left foot, both sides. Let me pause a third time... Did you know you really don't break your ankle? No, you break your leg at the ankle. Those ankle nobs are the end of your leg bone and she broke one in three places and the other broke in reaction to the first break. Regardless of what you call it, it obviously hurt and would likely need surgery, according to the nice young doctor in the emergency room.

So, we headed home, a journey not much more comfortable for Sheri than the one to the hospital, even though her ankle was now in a cast. The biggest challenge I faced was filling the doctor's prescription for “A stick for her to bite down on if the pain got too bad,” which was the only aid Sheri would accept. Well, that and ibuprofen.

I decided we surely had a stick at home that would work and, if not, we had plenty of wooden spoons. Getting her back up the three stairs and into the house, still in the driving rain, was tough, but, again, being the trooper that she is, she managed.

Here's a funny thing, funny odd not tunny ha ha. With all the health issues I've had in the last two years, I have not once said, “Why me?” But as I sat watching Sheri suffering, more than once I asked, “Why her?” On Valentine's Day it will be exactly 22 years since she was diagnosed with Type One diabetes; for the last two-plus years she's had to watch he husband suffer from multiple myeloma and an unnamed, but serious, stomach ailment, and she hasn't complained... well, not much. She's terrific, but sainthood does elude her. So, “Why her?” and, of course, the answer is, “Why not her? And, too, “If not her, who?”

After a couple of days she went to the orthopedic surgeon who scheduled surgery for the end of the week. An interesting thing about that. My various health issues have left me with not much strength and I had used up most of it by the time Sheri had to go to the surgeon. So, we had a couple of friends come over to assist and I couldn't help but notice, again, how amazing the human body is. To get Sheri into the car- an act that she did every day, all by herself, without even thinking about it- now took three people, plus herself. Yeah, boy.

They're going to insert a steel plate in her foot to fix it. I think, once the pain that comes from the surgery itself wanes, she should be able to get about a little better since it would seem the ankle will be truly immobile.

How upset have I been about all this? Not once have I said, “Look, Sheri, I know it hurts, but I had a stem cell transplant and you didn't hear me complain,” or any such thing. I just want her to heal and not have to be in pain. That's all.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere