The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 40

Just Walkin' the Dog

Today, finally, the weather cleared. It didn't snow or rain. There weren't gale force winds. There was even a bit of sunshine, early in the evening. Our depressed dog hadn't had a long walk in days, so after dinner, Michael and I and the dog headed out for a walk.

Dobby was in a mood tonight. After days of crappy weather and freezing walks, he was ready to go, trying to race down the road, straining against the leash and trying to make me go faster. I'm not cleared to run yet, so he had to settle for dragging me behind him. Every mailbox, pile of leaves, clump of dirt, and street sign got a little blessing from him, as he marked them all and called them his own. Far too early in the walk, he dropped a special treat, so then I had to carry a full poop bag the rest of the walk.

Lots of people were out tonight, walkers and runners and bikers, families and couples and singles and other dog walkers. The few cars that were out had their windows down, and we'd catch the occasional thump of bass and the occasional whiff of weed as they drove by. What else can you do on a Friday night when the world is closed?

I had a bag of books to drop off to the "free little library" down the road. Walking by earlier in the day, I noticed that it had been well picked over, and not many books were left. A crime thriller or two, a diet book, a trashy romance, a Michael Moore book, some obscure titles I'd never heard of. I had gone through my own bookshelves, getting rid of books I had in duplicate, like individual Shakespeare titles (I have an anthology that Helena calls "The Bible"), books I hate (Eat Pray Love, get your pretentious ass outta my house), and books I have had for years but will never, ever read (why do I have so much Thomas Hardy?). We stocked the little library, and then Dobby dragged us farther down the road.

Half a mile later, we circled back, taking the road down by the lake back to the house. We checked out landscaping and argued about green manicured lawns (Michael loves them, I think they look like chemicals), and Dobby tugged and sniffed and pretended to bless more leaf piles.

Suddenly, some 40-something year old guy comes banging out onto his porch and screams at me, "Don't let your dog fucking piss on my yard!"

My very thoughtful response was, "What?!"

"Don't let your dog fucking piss in my yard again!"

I looked at Dobby. He's a 9 pound Yorkie. We've just walked almost a mile. I yelled back, "Dude! We've been walking for a mile! Trust me, there's no piss left in him!"

He yelled some more, some word salad that included multiple usages of the words "piss" and "fuck" and"dog" and "bitch" and "dumb kids."

We turned to walk away, and I eloquently flipped him the bird over my head, full poop bag in hand. Dumb kids my ass. We are both quite intelligent, and middle-aged, TYVM.

"You fucking white trash bitch!" He yelled. Repeatedly.

So, there's that. The end of the story. The dumb kid in me wants to go back and empty all the poop bags in our wheeelie bin onto his precious lawn; but, I will refrain, and remain instead maturely on my couch, wine in hand, thinking, "that's Reverend Dr. White Trash Bitch to you, sir."