Warning - this post contains scatological language and a truly dreadful pun. Reader discretion is advised.
I did not step in shit this morning. I didn’t win the lottery or get struck by lightning, either, but what separates the first non-event from the other two is that I had the opportunity to do so.
I was moseying along the river path, watching a small flock of Canada geese as they stocked up on riverbank grass before continuing their migration, when a familiar tingling raised the hair on the back of my neck. I hadn’t felt this sensation for a long time, but I knew, instantly, what I had to do. I froze mid-stride, right foot hanging in the air, and looked down. There, mere millimeters below the scuffed toe of my sneaker, was the most amazing sight - a dog turd!
You may be thinking dog turds are a fairly common occurrence. This is probably because you are one of my friends who lives in The Netherlands, where canine hygiene is given the same laissez-faire treatment as prostitution and recreational drugs. When I lived there, I had that attitude as well. It’s yucky, but inevitable given the national love of dogs, and not really a big problem because everyone who lives in the Netherlands for more than a couple of months has the same highly developed radar that prevented an encounter of the stinky kind for me this morning.
However, if you are one of my North American readers, you are likely to be appalled. This kind of thing just does not happen in North America, certainly not in Canada. I doubt there’s a governing body in the entire country that hasn’t passed a stoop-and-scoop law. Dog walkers would rather be seen naked than without a conspicuously dangling poo-baggie, and anyone observed furtively pulling a pet away from a steaming pile is in for a serious ear-bending from passers-by. This national aversion to canine fecal matter is not limited to those of refined sensibilities, either.
Not long ago, I needed to replenish my stock of single malt, which had been seriously depleted by the recent revival of an interest in hot whiskey I acquired several years ago on a trip to the Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland. On my way into the liquor store, I passed a panhandler sitting the sidewalk. I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s a cheerful, easy-going young man who greets and blesses everyone that passes, whether they toss him change or not. The panhandler was carrying on an animated and friendly conversation with a local busker, while the busker’s dog, a mongrel whose genetic blend obviously included a liberal infusion of Great Dane, sat patiently beside his master.
Coming out from the liquor store, I was shocked to find the panhandler and the busker engaged in a violent shouting match. Now I promised you this post would contain only scatological language, so I will edit the following conversation to exclude all other forms of profanity.
Panhandler: That’s (expletive deleted) gross, man!
Busker: (expletive deleted) off!
Panhandler: Pick it up, you (expletive deleted)!
Busker: (expletive deleted) that! Pick it up yourself, (expletive deleted) (expletive deleted)!
Panhandler: It’s not my (expletive deleted) dog!
Busker: I don’t have an (expletive deleted) baggie!
Panhandler: Well, shit, man. Why didn’t you say so?
The panhandler rooted through his backpack and extricated a plastic bag, which the busker took and used to remove a large brown turd from the curb, while the dog disassociated himself from the process by staring loftily into the distance.
Now, I’ve done a bit of traveling in my time and some pretty strange stuff has squooshed up between my toes. I consider myself to be quite a woman-of-the-world when it comes to stepping in crap. But at heart, I’m still a Canadian, and of all the stuff I’ve stepped in, nothing triggers my gag reflex faster that dog shit, although an incident involving bear droppings outside my tent in Algonquin Provincial Park scores a close second. So, this morning, when my Dutch super-sense kicked in, I stepped around the dog turd and realized, with groan, that travel didn’t just broaden my mind, it literally saved my sole.
Oh, stop whinging. I told you it was a bad pun.
No comments:
Post a Comment