It must be love if I pick up her shit without even a second thought. I didn’t think I’d be capable. I dreaded the shame surely associated with stooping down, plastic bag in hand, to clean the ground of a brand-fresh, piping hot pooh. If it’s cold out, it steams.
Now I know: there is no shame. Not even when she does it right in the driveway of Stamford Bridge … on game day.
It must be love if I pick up her shit without even a second thought. I didn’t think I’d be capable. I dreaded the shame surely associated with stooping down, plastic bag in hand, to clean the ground of a brand-fresh, piping hot pooh. If it’s cold out, it steams.
Now I know: there is no shame. Not even when she does it right in the driveway of Stamford Bridge … on game day.
Of the three boys, Petunia and I recognise two: the chubby, blond one and the tall, lanky, black one. They are in the park with their dog, whom we also recognise: an occasionally aggressive Staffordshire named Killer. Petunia and I are with Butters, previously known as Orp*. Butters demonstrates wisdom beyond her months. She manoeuvres Petunia and me so we block the potential aggressor.
The boys don’t immediately recognise Petunia, Butters, or me, even though on previous occasions they have shown considerable interest in Butters.
“It’s a Rottweiller, innit?”
“Yep.”
“How old are you?” Lanky asks Petunia.
The third one (who is not white or black, but possibly Asian) laughs at his friend and mutters, “unbelievable” as he bends down to pet Butters.
“How old is it?” Lanky asks after getting no answer from Petunia.
“Just about 6 months.”
“It’s just like that other one we seen!” screams Chubby, (who, it strikes me, would make a very convincing Dudley – Harry Potter’s bully of a cousin, or the fat, greedy kid from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory).
“Yea. The one that American couple have.” The lanky kid agrees with Chubby Dudley.
“Yea, that black guy.” Chubby Dudley recalls the Mista.
“Hmmm. That would probably be my husband.”
“You married that black guy!” The lanky, black kid blurts out.
“He’s not black …” I boldly take the first steps to explain the Mista’s ethnicity, but stop myself dead in my tracks. Lanky, black kid is giving me a look, a look that says, “go on, I dare you.”
Lanky, black kid isn’t really very black but if he thinks my Mista is black then he must identify himself as black and any explanation of the distinction of Hispanic and Black from a white girl like myself will probably smack of some sort of racial protestation, a defense of the Mista’s colouring, an implied rebuff to black.
Chubby Dudley points to the plastic bag containing Butters’ ham treats. “What’s that?!”
Appropriate.
*Our Rottweiler Puppy
A package! A package! I’ve gotten a package!
I wasn’t nearly so excited on Wednesday afternoon when I came home to find the delivery collection card that the postman had left behind. I had assumed that the too-big-for-the-mail-slot delivery was nothing fun. As a matter of fact, I expected that the boring trip to the post office to pick up my undelivered package would yield nothing but a copy of my 2007 US tax return for the goddamn bastards at the IRS*. The last undeliverable package notice I received was only slightly more interesting: a free energy-saving pack of lightbulbs I got for filling in some survey on the Internet.
I didn’t get around to the post office on Thursday. Nor did I make the effort to get there before 19:00 on Friday. A beer with the work colleagues seemed far more important at the time.
I put off my journey to the post office until Saturday morning. When at 8:30 I arrived, I found that so had half my neighbourhood. The queue stretched from the package collection window to the front door, then doubled back on itself until the last person in line was standing right next to the first person in line.
I sensed discomfort. I wondered if the discomfort resulted from the not-so-neat queue. A messy queue certainly discomforts. Each new addition to the postal queue had to be informed as to where the back of the line formed. Nothing like forced interaction to make the English uncomfortable. There in the post office I witnessed two inherent traits battling it out for dominance: proper queueing versus the hush of minding one’s own business. Proper queueing won out every time.
I was mildly embarrassed by the ORP** whom I have obviously not yet properly trained in queueing etiquette. She showed slightly too much interest in the exposed red pedicured toes behind me and the scruffy cuff of torn jeans before me. I held her firmly on the lead, and kept her licking of exposed toes to a minimum. Generally, I have found the ORP to be quiet an icebreaker. I think it was too stuffy in the postoffice where her charm fell flat. I even wondered if her presence contributed the hangdog faces.
I got a package! A good package! A package from a friend! A belated gift! A box filled with one of my favourite snacks: Pepperidge Farm Gold Fish!
Hurray for you good friend!
*Despite that cutesy-putesy Stranger Than Fiction movie, I still believe anyone working for the IRS must be a twat. Sorry if any of you are out there.
**Our roaring puppy
Turns out my digging, and transplanting, and hiring out to professionals yielded more than a more functional garden. Everyone agrees: “I” have created a spiritual sanctuary. I suppose ORP** will need to work on her direction before she can earn salvation.
Other than that, she’s come a long way.
1. She is a master of sitting upon the command of a hand signal.
2. She generally goes to her little den upon the command ‘go to bed’ (although if she’s just woken and come out of her den, then she demonstrates a touch of willfulness).
3. She lies down when told, ‘down’.
4. She gives a paw when told, ‘shake’.
5. Without fail, she shits outside (very important).
Other than the figuring out which way to kneel to Mecca, it would be really nice if she stopped sporadically weeing indoors.
Still, not bad for two weeks***.
*Not an original joke.
**Our religious puppy
***Two weeks of being under our beneficial influence. She is 10 weeks old.
