Donna Louise here considering moving to a cave in a mountain somewhere away from wackadoodle city. Friends tell me that, while I say I don’t like confrontation, secretly I long for it. I still say they’re wrong and out of touch with the real Donna Louise, the goddess of love and kindness who wants everyone to join hands and sing one of those non-religious “we’re all folks” songs like “I’d Like the Teach the World to Sing”…not the Coke version, but the non-brand specific one. But, as part of my Socratic meditations to know myself, I will reconsider whether my friends might be right, especially after the incident in the yard yesterday morning.
Dressed in my old jeans and a sweatshirt, I gathered my gardening tools, my work gloves (a lovely lilac color), my matching garden hat and shoes and my weed eater and headed out the front door. The cool morning air was invigorating.
I pulled some weeds, edged the sidewalk and continued in my efforts to kill the mulberry tree that’s growing on the public easement. Two sacks of yard waste sat in the driveway, proof of my efforts to maintain my yard. I was about to sweep the stairs and sidewalk when this young lady appeared with her yappy dog. It stopped and dropped a big load on my freshly trimmed lawn. She watched the poop pour out of her pooch and then started off down the sidewalk leaving her doggie’s deposit steaming in the cool morning air.
“Excuse me, young lady. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
She ignored me.
“Excuse me, you with the yappy dog. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Her head whirled around like Linda Blair’s in “The Exorcist.” I jumped back to get out of the way of any projectile vomiting of pea soup.
“You sayin’ somethin’ to me, bitch?”
Now, really, I’d just finished the post about civility and here I was in an uncivil situation not more than ten minutes post post.
“You’re dog took a dump in my yard. Common courtesy requires that you pick up his poop and take it with you. In fact, it’s the law in Kansas City.”
Assuming a defiant pose with her hands on her hips, she snarled. “Do you see a plastic bag in my hands that I could use to pick up Pinky’s shit? No, you don’t.”
“Let me go get you one. I have one in my house.” I put down my garden tools although I wanted to trim her attitude right there on the sidewalk. “It will only take me a minute.”
“Sorry, bitch, I don’t have the time. Gotta run.” And she took off down the sidewalk.
I dropped my weed eater, ran up the stairs into the house and grabbed a plastic bag. When I picked up the poop—ewwwwwww (a major reason that I don’t have pets), I saw her was at the end of the block. With the plastic bag of feces in hand, I ran off down the road committing Error Number 223 in the ‘Hood Code of Behavior: Never leave tools unattended on the street because someone will take them. I didn’t care. I had sh!t to do.
The young lady and Pinky disappeared into a house about two blocks away. I waited a few minutes and then snuck up on the porch and deposited Pinky’s poo (as my friend Clematis always called feces) on the porch in front of the storm door.
I returned to my yard and found that no one had bothered my tools. A little more work in the yard allowed me to be outside when I heard a loud scream. A young woman’s voice carried through the cool morning air, “Sh!t. All over my shoes.”
Now I don’t know for sure that it was Pinky’s mistress, but it sounded like her and I want to believe it was her. Like that old Chinese proverb, Revenge is best served cold, I think it applies to dog poo too.