Where I walk my dogs, I don't need to pick up their turds. If on the odd occasion one dog releases a beefy mr whippy on the grass verge, I squat down as if to pick it up and then flick it with the outside of my stan smiths across the hedge and into unknown terriory. I cannot bring myself to pick up a steaming pate log that has just vacated my dogs rectum and is laying there smelling like a cheap cornish pasty bought from a garage.