Hanging by a Thread

It was a lovely night.  We had finished dinner and I suggested a walk.  For everyone’s sake, ours, the dog’s, we all need the exercise.

We started down the street and headed for the park.  It really was a beautiful evening.  It had rained earlier and was now warm and sunny.  The best of June.

We paused at the end of the block to let two young neighbors pet the dog.  Then we moved on.

The park would have several softball games going on, I knew Larry would want to watch.  So we selected a small set of bleachers behind home plate.  Only one other person was on those bleachers and the dog would be able to sit on the ground.

We watched several innings.  Larry was whistling a song he had played before we left home.  Mocha was up and down the three bleacher seats checking everything out.  Occaissionally she would sit at my feet.

And then…

And then one of the players, a thin man, a few years our senior, approached Mocha, unseen by me until he spoke, “Well you look like a nice…”

Mocha’s hackles went up and she began jumping against the short leash I had her on…snapping.

She wanted to bite him. !!!  As I grabbed for her collar her would be admirer realized his mistake and backed away.

I was stunned.  Apologetic.  Mocha, now subdued, sat quietly looking at me.


Time to move on, I think.  So we did.

As we approached the fire station at the edge of the park Mocha had to poop.

This at least, I was prepared for, I thought.  I took the plastic grocery bag I brought from home out of my pocket and waited for her to finish.  But I was not prepared for what would happen next.

Some of her poop was dangling from her bottom, and she freaked, absolutely freaked. She began spinning in circles, rubbing against the sidewalk, smearing poop everywhere.

I picked up what I could, but she continued her frenzied dance across the street, out of control, panicked by a small piece of poop hanging by a thread.  We couldn’t save her, we couldn’t stop her.  She was being driven wild by her own poop.

Now I was laughing so hard I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t talk.  And I could no longer control my bladder.

We had reached the main road and I was chagrined by the idea of walking home down Beech Daly, with my crazy dog, having just peed my pants.

Then my phone rang.  It was for Larry.  I tried to trade him the dog leash for the phone, but he resisted thinking I wanted him to carry the bag of poop.

As we finally rounded the block toward home we reflected on the turns our quiet evening walk had taken.

“This is supposed to be helping my blood pressure,” Larry observed. “But by the time I go back to the Dr. it will be up ten points.  He’ll ask me, What have you been doing? And I’ll say, Exactly what you told me to do: diet and exercise.”

“I’m angry all the time because I can’t eat what I want, and I’m stressed every day because I take the dog for a walk.”

Diet and exercise.  He always knew it would be the death of him.

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