Funny You Should Ask: Encounters on the Street
Just when I think the zen has made it into my bones, I get rattled by some unexpected encounter that raises the reptile in me. Things were rolling along just fine. My sweetie had been home from the hospital for a full forty-eight hours (see previous post). The orange of California poppies popped against the back fence. On recent walks, our dogs trotted side-by-side like the sisters we had envisioned when we adopted the youngest back in December, a couple weeks after Trish’s hip surgery was indefinitely postponed. Happy bounded into our lives with her puppiness still strong and reminded us all, nine-year-old Mocha included, what it meant to play. Dog toys that had been packed in the dog pantry in the garage found new life in the mouth of the tuxedo-ed creature that had been found loose on the streets and then was taken in by NorCal Bully Rescue. Her past reared its head when she lunged toward tall men in masks and when she scarfed down landscaping bark from the beds in the backyard. That she had found a place in our home was a boon to all of us, her included.
Today the second of the two-a-day walks happened off schedule because we were working around a visit from home health, which miscalculated the arrival time by almost an hour. I had agreed to keep the dogs out of the house for the nurse’s visit, and the best place for me to be with them would be on a walk, so we waited beyond our usual departure schedule to depart. I attached the harnesses on so we could jump out the door the minute the visitor appeared. Mocha and Happy looked confused. We waited. And waited. I dusted the furniture, started a wash, emptied the trash. What the hell?
So, maybe I was a little irritated when I finally scooted the three of us out the door and onto our familiar afternoon path. I didn’t need a jacket and opted for a white puff vest over the solid black pants and top I had thrown on after a quick morning shower. My shoes laced tight, I kept pace with my crew. I loved the route, the slight hill downward, the curving road, the clouds, the songbirds, the fruit tree blooms. I tried to unload the irritation of the delay. Not until we arrived at the double lot on the corner did the dogs want to pause in the usual space near the property line, a wedge of overgrown bushes and vines that is worth a smell every time. So smell they did and pee they did, both girls squatting on the fresh grass of spring. I let a little delight seep as their natural inclinations took over. We continued into the school zone. I eyed the sidewalk in each direction, looking for other dogs. Coast clear, we could go either way.
Before we were able to cross the street a red sedan slowed to my pace, going my direction. I heard a male voice as the window rolled low enough for me to see a thirty-something guy leaning toward me. “Hey! You didn’t pick up after your dogs!”
“Say, what?” I replied, disbelieving. On top of that, I would lose my place in my audiobook which just happened to be The Parable of the Talents by Octavia Butler and which was reaching its climax. Damn it! I ignored the voice in my ear and jerked toward the situation at hand.
“In that yard back there. I saw what your dogs did.” he shouted.
“Uh, yeah, they pee’d.” I waited a beat and then brandished the lime green plastic bone-shaped pooh bag holder at the top of Mocha’s leash at him. “Hey, guy, I carry these around with me every day! You can follow me around all you want!” I yelled.
The accuser kept his car moving, but we were locked eye to eye. Even with my lucky-find super-cool blue-reflective-lensed sunglasses, he had to feel the boreholes. B movie scene material, for sure.
“Ohhhhhhhkaaaaaay.” he grumbled with a smirk. His window rolled up as he crept off like a cop leaving a sketchy scene. I’d bet money that he rounded the block and inspected the patch of grass where the girls had squatted.
That’s when the messy what-the-hell-was-that kicked in. I was pissed. Indignant. How could he begin to suggest that I wasn’t a bastion of dog-walking etiquette (and had been for the past nine years)! I was irritated by his assumption, his ignorance, his audacity, his …. what? concern? community-mindedness? respect for private property? Why was I so upset? reactionary? embarrassed? Still, I seethed. I had no time for analysis. I was feeling from the bowels, horrified, taken-down-a-notch, and not happy about it.
I came home and railed against the spy. Didn’t Trish agree that he was an ignorant, uninformed piece of ****? Hold on. Was this me talking? I took a walk into the kitchen. Drank a cool glass of water. Thought of what I really wanted him to know.
Some dogs squat when they pee. My dogs squat when they pee. Why hadn’t I said that? Why hadn’t I taught him something he may not have known. Next time, I’d be ready. I’d practice saying it with a smile. My dogs squat when they pee, dear neighbor! and I’d wave like Lady Gaga and move on.
But just in case, from now on when I’m walking the dogs, I’d hold an empty and visible poop bag in my hand at all times. And I’d tie two extra bags, one to each leash, so there’s no mistaking my intention. And maybe I’d carry a sign: I pick up poop! And maybe I’d write about it. That’s what I’m thinking.
