Tag Archives: stepped in poop

Poop Magnet

24 Feb

Stepping on poopMy husband is a kind and gentle man.  Most of the time.  Perhaps because he can be so patient, he is entitled to his quarterly meltdowns. 

The walls of our house bear the scars of my husband’s past tantrums.  A scratch in the hallway commemorates the Cracked-Vacuum-Attachment-Incident of 2005, which prompted him to bang said attachment on the floor, sending yet another cracked piece of the attachment flying into the wall.  A dark smudge ten inches up from the floor in the bedroom marks the fight he had with a roller duffle that busted a wheel after only three uses. 

Without a doubt, the king of all tantrums was triggered by our dog, Gretzky.  When the mutt decided to take off for the neighboring woods one sunny afternoon, my husband lost his ever-lovin’ mind. 

“You know what?” he shrieked in the middle of the street with his fists pumping in the air like he was at a rally. 

I didn’t want to ask what.  I waited in silence for the inevitable freak-out promised by my husband’s wild-eyed look reminiscent of Chevy Chase’s infamous “Merry Christmas!  Holy shit!”

And I wasn’t disappointed.

“F#*k him! We just don’t have a dog anymore!”

I looked around the neighborhood to see if there were children present.  Thankfully there were not.

“Now, Brendon, honey.  I know you’re pissed, but we have to go look for him.  He might get hit by a car.”

“No!”  Brendon flailed around like his was winding up to pitch with both arms.  “He ran away!  He doesn’t know how good he has it.  We feed him.  We take him for walks.  And this is how he repays us?”  And with that, Brendon turned on his heel and marched home.

Five minutes later, however, he returned with the car and we looked for our dog together until we found him. 

In addition to broken appliances and runaway canines, the thing that pisses my husband off more than anything else, is stepping in dog shit.  Unfortunately, the universe has gotten this memo, and in an effort to provide him ample situations in which to practice more acceptance and patience….. well let’s just say he is a poop magnet.  As you know, I find poop hilarious.  Additionally, knowing that it is inappropriate and unproductive to laugh, only makes me want to laugh more.  It is an incredible exercise in restraint every time I see Brendon step in yet another steaming fresh pile of crap.

The poop finds him wherever we are.  Parking lots, rest areas, parks, beaches, even our own backyard.  When it happens, I stifle my laughter and offer sticks, pocketknives, bleach wipes, napkins and other shit-removal devices.  Brendon’s over-the-top reactions to these incidents force me to adopt the veneer of zen-like composure.  Underneath, I’m on the verge of erupting into hysterics. But I do what I can.

On a car trip up to New York last summer, Brendon stepped in dog crap while stretching at a gas station.  The ensuing meltdown was epic.  And hilarious. 

“Oh just great!  It’s going to take all freakin’ day to scoop this shit out of my shoes!  I’ve had these shoes for what?  A month?  This ALWAYS happens to me! Now we’re going to end up spending money on a hotel room because it’s going to take forever to get this shit out!”

Needless to say, it only took fifteen minutes to clean out the shoe, and we did not incur the cost of a hotel room. 

Our daughter, Phoebe, has been sheltered from these shit-storms, as I offer the cleaning implements to my husband and then take Phoebe for a nice long walk while, “Daddy cleans up the poopy.” 

Last week, on a perfect spring day that I wanted to bottle, my daughter and I walked around a lake and discussed the glorious weather.  We headed back to the car through an open field.  Acres stretched in front of us.  In her brand new white sneakers she was wearing for the first time, in all that open space, my daughter found the one lone pile of dog shit.  What were the odds?  I decided then and there, that being a poop magnet must be a genetic trait.  The oddest proclivities creep their way into our DNA like little time bombs. I waited to see if my little darling would also suffer from the “shit-happens-to-me-meltdown.” 

“Mommy, I think I stepped in dog poop.  Why didn’t the owner clean up the poop like you do for Gretzky?” 

Thank the Lord!  We were going to have a calm and rational discussion.  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t excited about cleaning the crap out of my daughter’s new shoes.  But I’ll take shit over a shit-storm any day.

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