Sunday, February 21, 2010

The Dog-Walk Fiasco (Part Deuce of 2)

When we last left our hero...

There I stood at the edge of an open field with no port-a-potty, a leash connected to an eager dog in one hand and a plastic bag meant for his poop in the other. I was a mile away from the nearest bathroom and the potential colonic escapees were pounding at the gates. The situation seemed hopeless.

My brain went into high-speed mode. I quickly decided that I had only 3 options:

1.) Run up to a random house, pound on the door, beg for use of bathroom.

2.) Find some kind of cover and use Rookie's poop bag for myself.

3.) Give up completely, commence sobbing uncontrollably, and shit myself right there.

As quickly as I came up with the aforementioned options, I rationalized their viability:

1.) A sweaty, shaky brown guy holding a leash attached to a hyperactive dog, pounding on the door of a random home, babbling incoherently and trying to force his way into said home. Not Viable. Most likely result: soiled drawers in back of squad car.

2.) A sweaty, shaky brown guy trying to hide himself behind a fire hydrant, squatting over a Albertson's grocery bag. Not Viable. Most likely result: soiled drawers in back of squad car.

3.) Me lying on the ground crying, drawers soiled, dignity dissolved, yet relieved. Most Viable: drawers soiled in the back of ambulance as opposed to squad car.

This entire brainstorming process lasted roughly 3 seconds from start to finish. I was about to take the path of most viability and least resistance, but right then I saw my dog staring at me with a concerned look on his face and it stopped me dead in the tracks of unloosening my belt.

What kind of message would it send to him if I just gave up in the face of adversity? That it was OK to just roll over and die? That it was alright to take the easy way out and not give it everything you got? That it was OK to just crap wherever you wanted to, even on my expensive living room furniture , just because he didn't feel like going to a proper restroom?

I knew right then that this was about more than me and my sudden onset of IBS, this was about setting an example for those that look up to you. My mind made up, I did the impossible.
I increased the pressure of my buttcheek clench and started walking back home. This was by no means easy or graceful.

In retrospect, I must have looked like a stiff-legged marionette walking down the street, strings being pulled by a malevolent meth addicted puppet master who intermittently sprinkled sweat on me in-between jerks. Neighbors froze in mid-wave at the sight of me, faces wearing a mix of concern and fear. I threw my hand in the air in the approximation of a wave and pressed on.

I rounded the corner of the block and came to my street, sweating like a wildebeest in the mid February cool. A very pale wildebeest I might add. I managed to catch a glimpse of myself in a neighbor's window and it was not a pretty sight: I had lost two full shades of blackness and was approaching a green color not unlike that of over-steamed prison broccoli. The noises coming out of my stomach sounded like someone was strangling a cat with a bath-towel. I felt myself losing consciousness...can't...hold...on...

Rookie sensed the urgency of the situation and began to literally drag me down the street. We had less than five hundred feet to go, and my dog was lending me his strength to make it home. He refused to let his master be reduced to a bawling pile of incontinence in the middle of the street , digging into the ground with his skinny dog legs and pulling me behind him.

I don't remember the walk from the end of the block to the front door, but I do remember that I looked and felt like I had gone through a vision quest at an Indian sweat lodge. With hands shaky enough to put a tweaker to shame I managed to stuff the key in the lock and stumble into my house. I'll spare you the gory details of the bathroom, but let's say it was destroyed worse than downtown Afghanistan.

The moral of this story? Reward your dog for his loyalty and good behavior every chance you get, because one day he might be the one keeping your mess out of a public place.


No comments:

Post a Comment