I once watched Ellen Degeneres describe how embarrassing it is when other people to see you watch into a spider web. There's no recovering from it, no saving face. You know the feeling of just totally freaking out, with the only concern in your mind is making sure there was no spider in said web when you walked straight into it.
I hate to tell her that I've found an event even more embarrassing. It's called walking my two dogs. This morning, like every Saturday in recent months, J is at work so I take the dogs on a solo walk. And I should take a moment to explain that walking on a leash is on of Leo's fortes. I've said before that I think he would've made a swell police dog due to his never-ending energy and determination to defend. So putting him on a leash is one place he feels that I'm fully in control (J will argue with this and says Leo won't stop "honking" at people...aka the lovely sound he makes when he pulls himself against his leash too hard) Mary on the other hand was raised in Tennessee. Off a leash. Where she ran with a pack of free-roaming dogs through the fields and mountains, chasing deer and rabbits. So now when we force her to wear a leash, it's kind of like me trying to squeeze into my old prom dress: it just doesn't fit.
When we moved to this condo and solo dog-walking became a necessary evil, I devised a plan. I've figured out a way to walk them very closely to each other (maybe 8 inches apart), side-by-side with me, 3 abreast if you will. That usually keeps them too distracted by each other's proximity to act up. If they could talk, I'm sure this is the point one of them would screech, "Mooooommm, he's touching me!" This phase, Cocky Walking Mode, has been working out fairly well for me. I prefer a swift pace and so do they. Sometimes I get a little too proud of them, thinking we must look like a cute trio -- such well-behaved dogs. I imagine in this early leg of the walk, we're the little clan that make other dog-owners wish their dogs could walk on a leash so nicely. Until...one of them breaks ranks to poo.
Let's face it, dog poo is a part of life. J and I give each other updates, and ask for updates, several times a day. "How are the babies? They poo yet?" I'm sure my cubemates think I have a sick obsession for excrement, but if you're a dog owner, you get it. And it never fails, just as we're getting into our stride, a girl and her 2 obedient dogs walking down the street, one of them will just stop. And squat defiantly. And I'll immediately shift into Poo Mode, which consists of wrangling the other dog as far away as possible (common decency, right?) and digging for my poo bag (what you non-dog owners might refer to as a "Walmart bag") and waiting for the glorious moment I get to trust a miniscule layer of plastic to protect me from all that is evil in this world. I also get to perform the poo-squat myself, bending over to scoop up nastiness. There is a dog park down the street bordered by condo buildings on 2 sides and I secretly wonder if one of those condo inhabitants is standing by a tripod in his condo, snapping pictures of unsuspecting victims to eventually publish a photo book called, "Bending Over: The Art of Poop-Scooping in South Hampton Roads." Yes, people, these are things I really wonder about.
Then the equation gets a little more fun because now I'm juggling the dogs and a tied up bag of turds. And once the other dog poos, that's when we shift into Danger Zone Mode. Two bags of crap, two dogs, two hands...you do the math, they've got my king in check. They own me at this point. Our neighborhood has a few trash cans along our walking route, so when I'm at max capacity, this is when I shift into Danger Zone walking mode. I pick up pace and hightail it to the first trash can as fast as possible, usually several blocks away...I imagine it looking like a crazy game of Frogger from a bird's eye view. I dodge all bushes -- Leo will try to mark every bush if you let him, even when he's just at the point of willing something to come out. I dodge all puddles -- Mary will stop at every.single.puddle. to snatch a quick drink despite what may be floating in it...hey, she's a country dog, y'all. I avoid all yards I know house loud barking dogs. I avoid people. Parking lots. Stop signs. You get the picture: I'm a woman on a mission, a secret agent trying to deliver a top secret package before a deadline. National security practically depends on how fast I can trot to that trash can.
Once I've reached Euphoria Mode, what happens after said poo bags have been disposed of, I relax a little. The dogs start to slow down, worn out after such an adventure. The only thing that can get in the way of our now way easy walk home is a squirrel. Just as it did this morning. Both dogs started lurching forward, pulling way stronger than normal, and I kind of lean back into my shoes to brace myself. Their strength catches me off guard and the combo of their pulling and my resistance leaves me reluctantly bunny hopping down the sidewalk. I reach deep within my being, and muster just enough power to emit a guttural, throaty reprimand.
"LEO...MARY...LEEEEAAAVVVEEE IIITTTT!!!!"
I glance to my right and see on the opposite sidewalk and see a man jogging behind his young daughter's bicycle. I can't help but think after they passed me that he must've whispered to her, "Sweetie, it's not polite to stare at crazy people."
