AI drones are coming for dog owners

The most significant application to date of artificial intelligence and unmanned aerial aircraft has been unveiled: the Poopcopter. It does what it says on the tin. It scoops poop. No more plastic bags. No more furtive glances while out walking to see if Fido’s emissions have been observed by truculent neighbours.

According to its inventor, the Poopcopter is the ‘world’s first self-guided dog poop removal system, using a drone, and 3D-printed pickup mechanism.’ The drone has real-time computer vision and machine learning algorithms. A cloud-based system receives footage from the drone’s built-in camera, examines it, and looks for any excrement in the surrounding area.

After identifying its target, the drone attempts a precise landing close to the offending deposit and scoops, assisted by algorithms that position it precisely. Sadly, the Poopcopter is not quite ready to be commercialised, but I have already been in touch with the mayor of my village in France to urge him to order a squadron of them as soon as it is. His one-word reply: ‘Oui!’

One small step for a dog, one giant leap for mankind, is my own take on this. I calculate that I have personally picked up roughly 12,000 bags of poop for my dogs Ringo and Bella. It is a task that I perform without relish but from duty, as I have a certain reputation to uphold here. Also the reputation of Britain itself.

My old mucker Andrew Neil, lately of this parish, who lives a few hundred kilometres away on the posh side of the Rhône, disclosed on Twitter the other day that when he wishes to signal virtue, he picks up after his dogs, using Canisacs ordered from Amazon. His point was that it’s an activity preferably observed by others, not just for its virtue, but for its signalling.

Andrew absolutely gets it, other than the Canisacs. I have switched to Pogis, which are far superior, also from Amazon, more expensive but with a deeper pocket, biodegradable and with handles to wrap it up tightly.

Here in my village in southern France of 2,600 humans, there are around 300 dogs, producing between them, I calculate, with aid from ChatGPT, roughly 100kg of poop daily, or 36 tonnes annually. The late Tip O’Neill Jr., former speaker of the US House of Representatives, observed that all politics is local and while he didn’t have it in mind when he said it, dog poop is quintessentially local politics.

From my years as a member of the municipal council, I can verify that voters notice when they walk to the boulangerie for their baguette and the route is an obstacle course. Our mayor is sound on the issue. He has launched a jihad against dog poop and is constantly on patrol on his bicycle, keeping an eye out for those who are not as dutiful as me. I was lucky enough to be observed by him just yesterday, scooping poop outside his house. I waved the bag at him as he passed, to be sure he noticed.

In a country as disrespectful of authority as France, the disposal of dog poop depends on the conscience of dog owners, who often have none. In the nearby city of Béziers, the mayor has ordered dog owners to register a sample of their pet’s DNA with the Hôtel de Ville. Municipal agents now scour the streets for uncollected deposits, identify the culprit using PCR tests, and the amende forfaitaire duly arrives in the post.

Pending arrival of our first Poopcopter, we’re stepping up to the challenge by installing impressive dog-waste stations – bornes de propreté – costing around €300 each, touted by the supplier as ‘an essential in urban planning to ensure canine hygiene.’ They contain a receptacle and a Canisac dispenser, fixed on a mast adorned with a picture of a winsome toutou.

Sadly, numerous dog owners have ignored these. Although eventually the mayor or our diligent municipal police will catch them. What all dogs have in common, from the lowliest rescue hounds to the most adept hunting dogs, is that they all produce stinky waste. At the top of the food chain, but absent here, are the well-coiffed handbag dogs of Paris. So-called because they are transported to their engagement in those oversized handbags that French women refer to as their cinq à sept, containing tout ce qu’il faut for the after-work romantic interlude.

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These bags are also the perfect size for transporting an immaculately-groomed Pomeranian. For many years, one of these creatures would take his lunch daily at the Maison du Caviar in the 8th Arrondissement. He ate at the table, not from the floor. An American woman who complained was invited to leave by the maitre d’. ‘He is a very good customer, Madam.’ I cannot say where this gourmand canine performed his ablutions but I can hardly imagine his elegant owner stooping with a Canisac, although perhaps a more elegant sac can be obtained at Hermès.

The streets of Paris were particularly noxious at the time of observing this incident and although subsequently the city introduced a sort of dog-poop robot pushed around by a dedicated functionary, that aspirates and then disinfects, when I was recently in the capital, not much had changed. Paris definitely needs Poopcopters.

Here in the provinces, I like to think our manners are superior to the Parisians, although even I will admit to cheating, if nobody is looking. My own rule is that any poop on or immediately adjacent to a footpath must be picked up. But at the edge of the urban milieu, where pavements peter out, and the paths are bordered by long grass where nobody will ever walk, it’s less obligatory. I have discussed this with the mayor and he has agreed this is reasonable.

My mongrel Bella is five and full of life. Many years remain of cleaning up after her. Ringo, a lab, is 14 now and not as steady as he was. He sometimes stumbles as we walk through the vines. His throughput remains voluminous although I suspect that the end of my days of picking up after him is numbered. I’ll miss him, and the daily reminder that a visitor from Mars, observing this, might be excused for confusing the nature of the relationship. Dogs might be man’s best friend, but when it comes to their waste, we’re the grooms of the stool, and the dogs the bemused spectators.