On a recent weeknight, I sauntered into our dark backyard to accompany the family dogs for their last potty break before bedtime. To be fair, this is an activity that they handle proficiently without supervision. But the mother hen in me insists on confirming that they do the deed; heaven forbid they decide to skip it and wake us at 3:00 in the morning for some fresh air relief.
I wander through the chilly blackness without a flashlight. Movement will trigger the motion control outdoor lighting in a moment. There is no need to watch my feet; I know the terrain as I know the comforting familiarity of an old pair of shoes. I do not worry about what is on the ground; I stay on the trimly mowed grass, away from ornamental shrubs and rocks.
After the pups do their business, I corral them back inside for their final treat of the night which they earn for peeing outdoors. (Well, that and because they are irresistibly cute.) I walk to the panty to pull out Alpo T-Bonz, and as I do, I notice the muddy – and smelly – footprints I am leaving in my wake. To my horror, I realize that I have tracked dog poop into the house.
I am inexplicably livid. My husband and I are meticulous dog walkers, and I monitor dog eliminations as carefully as accountants total tax deductions. If errant dog feces show up in our yard, they are bagged up and trotted to the garbage before they can even adjust to the outdoor temperature. But in recent weeks, the pups have gone into the back yard unsupervised as my husband’s foot surgery prohibited him from escorting them.
I clench my teeth and utter words that I have the luxury of using now that my adult children no longer live with us. I complain bitterly as I wash the floors at an hour when I wish to be cozied up in bed watching forgettable television. I take my poop-encrusted shoes outdoors and heave them into the trash can.
I seethe for reasons unrelated to puppy poop. I am tired. The relentless to do list of this year has been more exacting than ever before. My impatient temperament, barely manageable in a non-pandemic environment, is completely unbridled. The wearying dictates of work, finances, fitness, cooking, housecleaning, groceries, dog walking, and health have relentlessly eroded my emotional capacity. Everything demands more time and effort than I am willing to give.
I feel like a viral god puppeteer is manipulating my life, drumming his fingertips, and chuckling with evil. Ha-ha! Laurin hates to grocery shop and cook, so let us decide that her husband needs foot surgery, so it falls on her shoulders for six weeks. Hee-hee! Laurin is tired when she comes home from work. Why not have her walk both dogs at night, one at a time, and throw in darkness, rain, and maybe blustery wind for good measure? Is law firm management extra painful this year? Hmmm…well, we could add in new partners and a tax deduction complexity to deal with. And let us mess with the election, shall we? No point in making it a simple 24-hour process when it can grind on, interminably, for weeks on end.
While we are at it, let us cancel all travel. Since Laurin cannot leave her home, she will not bother to take time off work. We will shorten her vacation to only four days this calendar year, and make sure that only a couple of those are remotely fun. We will let her participate in a few family gatherings, but we will add a layer of guilt and socially distant awkwardness to take the edge off joyfulness. That should do her in.
I retreat to the bedroom and pull grumpy bedcovers over my head.
The next morning, I wake up and though I nod deferentially to the COVID avatar, I feel happy and inspired. The day is youthful with possibility and prospect. My mood elevates as I consider the implausible brightness of a daybreak run, the comfort of warm coffee, and the upcoming quiet but friendly cheer of my co-workers.
But first I stride sheepishly out to the garbage can and lift open the hinged cover. I retrieve my poopy shoes with remorse, and hose them off. The embryonic glow of an improbably sunny winter day shifts in my direction.