DOG DOO

                                                                 

 


     Several years ago, my father called and asked if I would mind accompanying him to a funeral for one of his old friends.  I had nothing pressing to do that day, so I told him that I wouldn’t mind at all.  Besides, I had always liked Fred, who had occasionally come to our house over the years.  He and my dad had grown up together and often sat around sharing stories of the old days and their youth, and  I enjoyed listening to them.
     On the morning of the funeral, which was in mid-July, I had enough time to mow the front yard and jump into the shower before my dad was due to pick me up.  The temperature was a balmy  90 degrees and I had hoped that dad didn’t want to attend the whole function, including the graveside service.  While waiting for him to arrive, I patrolled the yard picking up the occasional stick and making sure I hadn’t missed any spots after I had finished mowing.  Soon, I could hear my dad’s truck rumbling down the road toward our house.
     “Hi son.  I’m running a little late, but we should have plenty of time,”  dad said as he wheeled his old truck to a stop in our driveway.  “You’ve been busy this morning.  The lawn looks nice.”
     I hopped into passenger’s side and off we went with the windows down due to a lack of an operational  air conditioning  system in is truck. 
     “I’m guessing there’s going to be quite a crowd.  Old Fred was well liked by many people.  He and I grew up together, you know?”  he continued while, driving onto the road in front of our house.  We made small talk on the way, discussing Fred and his death and baseball.  Mostly baseball.
     Sure enough, there was a large gathering at the chapel which sat adjacent to the funeral home.  Fred hadn’t been a regular at any church that I knew of, so his family elected to use the facilities at the funeral home instead, which had very limited seating.
    “Dad, we may just have to stand at the back, there’s a horde of people here.  I don’t think we’ll find a seat,”  I said, as we walked toward the crowd which had gathered at the front door of the little building.
     A very large and boisterous fellow approached us and shook my dad’s hand and mine.  “Of course you’ll be able to get a seat.  Fred wouldn’t want to see his old childhood friend stand at his funeral!  Come with me,”  the big guy said, hurrying away toward the throng of people.  I decided that the man who led us into the chapel must be the funeral director by the way he ushered  us right up to the front with authority, and pointed to two empty spots on the end of the second row of pews.   I assumed that my dad knew the man, since he addressed him by his first name, but honestly, my dad seemed to know everybody.  Whether or not we were just lucky, or the seats were saved for us, we weren’t sure, but we looked at each other and smiled, glad to have somewhere to sit.
     We sat quietly, studying the paper bulletin that we had picked up off a table by the door,  reading about the dear old Fred’s life and occasionally glancing up to where he lied in his open casket.  The family and pall bearers were seated in the front row, only a few feet from the deceased. 
     “Whew!  It’s hot in here.  I guess the air conditioning isn’t working here either.  I hope they make this thing short and sweet, I’m dripping over here,” my dad whispered quietly to me, close to my ear and careful to not be heard by the family.  I too was feeling rather warm, and neither of us were accustomed to wearing suits, especially not on a day as hot as that.  We were squeezed in like sardines at the end of the pew, with an elderly gentleman seated directly in front of me while several old ladies sat across the narrow isle in the other row of seats.  Beginning to sweat myself,  I adjusted,  trying to create a little more room, by lifting one leg over the other in a crossed fashion and sitting caddy corner in the pew.  Suddenly, the old man in front of me looked left and then right with flared nostrils and leaned over the isle and whispered to the old lady closest to us, whom I assumed must have been his wife.
     “When did Fred die anyway ?” he said as quietly as possible, trying not to be overheard by others close by.  I surmised that he had neglected to grab a bulletin  when he came in, or maybe he was from out of town.
     “A week on Thursday, I believe,”  came the reply from the lady leaning slightly toward us  with a hand  over her mouth.
     “Did they embalm him?” came another question.
     “Well, I reckon!  What kind of ignoramus question is that for heaven’s sake?”
     “I smell something.  Things are gettin’ kinda ripe over here,” the old man said with a pinched face.
     “Oh good grief George!  Just pipe down, they’re closing the casket now!  What’s wrong with you!?”  the clearly frustrated and embarrassed lady asked.
     George was right.  There was a very rancid aroma floating in the vicinity of where we sat, waiting for the service to start.  I had no idea where the noxious odor was coming from, but it appeared to be gaining strength.  Maybe they did forget to embalm Fred and the July heat had begun to take his toll, I thought.
     My dad leaned over to whisper something in my ear just as the minister began walking toward the podium to speak.
     “Poop,” he said, quietly.
     “Poop?” I mouthed back at him.  What an inconvenient time for him to have nature call, and now I was beginning  to wonder if  he was the perpetrator who had unleashed  the stinking, invisible cloud floating around us.
     “No, Dog poop!”  he said again, barely audible, while pointing toward where my shoe was dangerously close to touching his trousers.  Sure enough, there it was.  A big, brownish blob of  gooey scat that my wife’s little dog had so cleverly deposited in our yard for me to step in.  I knew I shouldn’t have gone back into the yard!
      I lowered my foot to the floor beneath us, in a futile attempt to contain at least some of the fumes and trying in vain to prevent putting to much pressure on the shoe so as not to soil the carpet.  Throughout most of the service, the invisible cloud had enveloped most of the front two rows of pews.  Occasionally some of the pall bearers and family members would carefully look themselves and the casket up and down and at those around them, trying to find the source of the very offensive stench.  Even those who were mourning loudly had stopped crying and turned their attention to trying to pinpoint where the awful, powerful odor was coming from.  Several times the old man in front of me leaned forward, looking toward the casket, sure that Fred had prematurely began his transition back to ashes and dust.  Thankfully, the preacher wasn’t long winded and we didn’t have to endure the smell or the heat for very long.
     We passed George and his wife outside on the sidewalk, and he was still trying to convince her that either Fred hadn’t been embalmed, or something else had died in the chapel.  “I’m telling’ ya Rita, it was terrible.  I’m just glad to get some fresh air! I don‘t think old Fred was the only thing dead in there!”
     We finally made our way back to the truck and did indeed have a good laugh at my untimely misfortune, although I would have rather not had that particular laugh, especially at a funeral, surrounded by the grief stricken family.  If we’d only stood in the back, I could have easily stepped out and cleaned my shoe.  When we arrived at my house, I bid my father farewell after a brief laugh again in the driveway and headed to the  picnic table with twig in hand and began to pick the now drying manure from the treads of my shoe.
     This unfortunate incident is a perfect example of what I have dealt with for over forty years.  For as long as I can remember, I have had the uncanny ability to unknowingly step in dog poop no matter where I go.  Why couldn’t I have been a famous athlete, or maybe a world renowned surgeon?  No, I seem to be famous for sucking clean, breathable oxygen out of a room with my dog poop smeared footwear.  Oh, occasionally everyone has had the misfortune of taking that untimely step, but with me it happens with superior regularity.  I’ve dragged  the stinking stuff into people’s homes, the grocery store, church, doctor’s office, schools and just about anywhere else life takes me.  Heck, I haven’t been invited back to read to my daughter’s elementary school class, because her teacher doesn’t think I bathe regularly.  The stench was just too much for a bunch of giggling, squirming fourth graders.  My wife thinks my misfortune is due to my constant piddling in the yard.  I happen to think that I’m cursed in some way.  I’ve always felt that it was quite possible that I  could have changed the course of history because of my pathetic claim to fame. I can only imagine the panicked radio transmission had I been aboard the Apollo 13 spacecraft.  “Houston we have a problem.  Our oxygen tanks just exploded, and worse yet,  Neil has dog poop on his boot! We’re in bad shape up here!”
     So for the foreseeable future, I will continue to calculate each step, like a soldier walking through a minefield.  Surely this may help some, but one thing is certain.  For me there will always be that little, brown missile lying in wait for me to transport it on the bottom of my shoe to places far and wide.  My picnic table will always be there for me to sit, with a twig in hand ready to scrape my shoes free of that stinking, nasty dog doo.