We all have our quirks, don’t we? They may not always
surface and make witnesses gasp yet they exist. And sometimes they rarely
manifest; spontaneous occurrences which might cause a physical reaction to
something observed in others. Before I reveal what brings me to my knees let me
give you some background.
I am a veteran Army military police officer. While most
of my work involved highly detailed “intelligence security guard” work, it
occasionally drifted into responding to physical violence at its guttural
level. Separating drunken GIs, while taking an occasional swing with a fist or
nightstick. Perhaps dragging a combative, busted John Wayne who somehow managed
to fall “up” a half-flight of stairs on his way to booking. Only drew my “trust
rusty” 1920 .45 automatic once that I can recall, but fortunately did not have
to fire it.
Later on, I became a daily newspaper reporter. In the
small river-town I worked in, there were infrequent violent assaults, gruesome
highway accidents and fatalities and the occasional murder, farm death or
drowning to be on the scene to cover. A few suicides involving ropes or a
shotgun. In fact, I was asked to help out on a few occasions – freelance mind
you – to assist with autopsy photography with the local sheriff’s department.
Several years later, I was in northern Saudi Arabia and
Kuwait City to cover the aftermath of Desert Storm. I won’t share what few
scenes I happened upon.
In a tamer world, I have been spewed on by children and
grandchildren and endured more than I care to remember. It goes with the turf. I
have nursed loved ones and complete strangers oozing with indescribable human
flotsam and jetsam. Yet, there is something I have yet to tame.
With one exception: Today when I arrived home from work,
a hideous odor slammed me like a hurricane. In a distant corner, my aging
roommate, Patrick, cowered in a corner as I stepped into the kitchen. The foul
and unintended duty had been done.
My welcome home was a wall-to-wall, full-court press of
canine crap throughout the kitchen. It was panoramic splatter on par with a dark-sepia
Goodfellas hit scene. After my girlish yelps, I immediately sent the suspect to
the backyard, changed clothes and went into action.
I retrieved three plastic bags (thank you, Kroger) and
began the fecal forensic cleanup work. Two for the dog’s mess. And one for me.
On hands and knees, armed with wads of paper towels, Clorox and plastic
scraper, I made my way across that cheap linoleum with my t-shirt neck pulled
up above my nose. Scraping, wiping and gagging my way through the crucible. The
work nearly done and two bags filled, it was time for one bag for the master.
I hurled. And let any further descriptions or
explanations end with that, but noting the importance of the third bag. Thank God I am not the subject of a reality TV show.
After recovering, I let my roommate back into the house
and he cocked his head questioningly as I wiped my face with a cool washrag. It
was as if he was saying, Sorry about
that, amigo. A dog’s gotta do what he’s gotta do when he reaches my age! Hey,
if you don’t mind too much, how about topping of the bowl with some IAMS, my
brother!
Funny what triggers a gut reaction in each of us. Mine
happens to dog me on a rare occasion.
No comments:
Post a Comment