Curb Your Dog

Even for Superman, bending steel can be hard sometimes. So how are we mortals to be strong in the face of insurmountable odds?

I mean, what were the odds that I would catch the early-morning dog walker whose little darlin’ was dumping in our yard every day? After all that work I did last Fall to increase our curb appeal for the bank appraiser: the new lamp post, the ilex compactus hedgerow, the crushed limestone tableau where our giant weedpatch once thrived… In her report, the appraiser noted our property’s “extensive landscaping,” and “parking court.” If she stopped by in April, she might have edited to “Litter Box” and “Crap Magnet.”

The turds first appeared two weeks ago in the gravel where we park.  We’d find them by the back bumper one morning, then under the driver’s door the next. They were like Kryptonite, these piles. No matter how cheery my day began, or how eager I was to check on the garden, I’d catch sight of the poo by our cars and grow weak with defeat. A flurry of question ensued: Who is this mo^&erf&#@$%?

Dear Dog Walker,

Don’t you see my frigging peace pole? You’re not supposed to crap in a yard with a peace pole. It has four languages. What? This is Central Virginia? I thought of that already. Refer to deer rack on my shed. C’mon!

Signed,

Curb Your Dog

In the twilight, my kids would stand on the back porch in their PJs and call to me, “Are you gonna put us to bed?” I’d come through the gate and smile at them reassuringly. “Of course. Just watering the last flower box.” Once they stepped inside, I was back to weighing stake-out options. Which was better, behind the rain barrel (convenient), or the back of the station wagon (dramatic)?

“We just need to put up a sign,” my husband Joe said one night.

“And get it laminated,” I added. He looked at me, annoyed, in that you-know-we’ll-never-make-it-to-Kinko’s kind of way.

“I’ll just print extras in case it rains,” he offered.

“But then we’ll have to replace the signs. That’s as bad as scooping poop.”

We met in the middle, opting for clear packaging tape and a chopstick.

Throughout the next day as I scrambled eggs and clicked my mouse, I told myself not to cling to false hope. Anyone who saw our parking court as his dog’s canvas would not be deterred by a sign.

Then the steel started to bend. I thought about my anger. About how it was disproportionate and irrational, like road rage. Why did I lack the will to fight it, or to think of another approach? Because it’s tedious, painful work to change an attitude.

I pushed myself.

What if the dog owner is elderly?

With that, the poop emerged from a spiritual phone booth in a much more interesting outfit.

What if the owner can’t bend over to pick up the waste? What if his wife died recently, and some loving but misguided relatives gave him a dog to ‘cheer him up’? Now he has the dog, and doesn’t particularly want it, but he hasn’t figured out what to do. In the meantime, the creature has to be walked…

If the piles belonged to that dog, to that owner, well, I could work with that. He could steer the dog’s rear to the curb, and I could package the product and toss it in the trash.

The next day I was late getting everyone out the door for school. Joe was out of town, and I had a presentation to give at nine. From space, the kids and I looked like a slow-moving cyclone of elbows, backpacks, shorts, and black socks. As I turned, I waved to a woman walking down the street. We used to see each other regularly at a local museum. Her grandchildren often collaborated with my kids to dismantle exhibits. As she passed our parking area, I saw that her arm was outstretched. She was being pulled by a dog the size of a Pain Campagne. She continued down the sidewalk, and I remembered that she’s a refugee who doesn’t speak English. During all our encounters when the children were little, we’d used gestures to communicate. A pointed finger meant “your kid ran that way.” A smile said, “hello,” “thank you,” and “see you next time.” Two raised eyebrows meant “sorry the diaper stinks.”

After the kids were loaded into the car, I checked the gravel. Nothing.

Since that morning, the dark piles in our parking court have proved to be just Fall leaves unmoored by Spring winds. Was it wrong for my museum buddy to let her dog loose on our yard? Yes. Was it the huge deal I made it out to be? No. Curbing dogs is the law here, but it may not be a priority on Krypton, or in the remote mountain country she fled. Though it’s been years since the woman and I talked, I thought I recognized an “I’m sorry,” in the bend of her wrist. With any luck, she read “forgiven” in the sway of my fingertips.