(Number One of Number Two)
Slowly I turn, step by step, being careful not to startle the creature as she makes her way determinedly through the jungle. I step gingerly on twigs, grateful they are still soggy from the rains and don’t snap beneath my boots and alert her to my presence.
She is clever, this one. She knows I am after her, but she doesn’t run. If she does, she knows I’ll never find her as she is faster than I. Much faster. She is playing a game with me, no? But I will not be fooled. No, I will wait for her next movement. But, alas, she looks at me and if she could speak would say, “I don’t have to poop yet, so stop following me around with the Tupperware, ok?”
Ah, the creature has a point. How ridiculous I must look in my pale pink Isaac Mizrahi rain boots from Target, my black “boxer” robe with the word “FABULOUS” in bold pink block letters across its back, following her around with latex gloves, a plastic spoon, and a disposable Tupperware container in our backyard. The creature is my dog Ava who woke me up several times last night to go outside. The last time she did this she had apparently ingested a parasite from something she ate in the yard. So, because of my excellent detective skills, and memories of cleaning up after her around the house, I decide to be proactive and not wait a few days to see what happens. I know what happens, and I want to get a poop sample to the vet ASAP to confirm my suspicions and get her on Heavy Doody medicine.
But she is mocking me. She knows I am waiting for her to unleash her fury. So instead she trots back towards the house and I follow her, defeated this time, but not broken in spirit. For I know that all I have to do is feed her, wait an hour, suit up in my boots with Tupperware in gloved hand, let her out, and begin the dance again.
Ava is sitting by the window, watching the leaves, looking for squirrels. I am at the ready because when the spirit hits her it will hit her hard and fast and I must be ready to follow. I feel like an expectant father with his 9-months pregnant wife’s packed suitcase next to the bed. I am trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. And, if I think about what I am doing – waiting for my dog to poop – I realize I must reexamine my life.
I decide to get dressed in jeans so when the time comes I can nab the poop, trap it in the Poopperware, I mean Tupperware, and take it to the vet.
Ah! The moment has arrived. Ava is doing her poopy dance. I jump into my Isaac Mizrahi boots, don the gloves and grab the Tupperware. I take a moment to pride myself on how good I have become at this. Then I decide that this is not something I wish to be proud of.
I open the slider doors that lead to the vast backyard and try to keep up with Ava as she sprints towards the thickest part of the woods. She zigs. I zig. She zags. I zag. She zig zags. I slip on wet leaves and almost land on my face. But I quickly right myself because I know she is trying to out-manure me. Little does she know defeat is not an option. I will succeed. I will be as agile as a, well, as agile as I can be in my kicky little rain boots.
Finally I see her jumping around in circles in one spot. I know this is it. I also know that in some remote part of New Mexico it is probably raining for the first time in years because her poop dance resembles rain dances I have seen Native Americans do. I hope they are grateful for the rain this dog has bestowed upon them, though they will never know how the heavens mysteriously opened for them this day.
She tries to elude me as she jumps in circles while at the same time landing in different parts of the woods. But I know there will come a time when she will not be able to contain herself and just as I suspect, the fury is unleashed and I have the evidence I need to take to the vet.
I thank Ava for her contribution and she looks at me with renewed respect as if to say, “Nice job, Mom. I gave you the runs for your money and you kept up with me.” Then she looked at me again as if to say, “Really, mom? Maybe you need to reexamine your life.”
I write Ava’s full name with a Sharpie on the Pooperware and then place it in a plastic bag. I am off to the vet.
When I get to the vet’s office I sing to the receptionist, “I have a present for you,” which I always do when I have to drop off a poop sample at the office. I’m sure just about everyone else says the same thing, and we all think we’re so clever. But the forced grin and strained laugh I get in return affirms what I already know. We are not so clever. In fact, some day one of the receptionists will probably just lose it. She’ll open up the “present”, say something like, “Oooooooooh, I love it. It’s just my size and I love the color!” and then scoop it out and throw it in my face.
I sit down and wait for the technician to perform some lab test on “the present” and find the little beasties that are making Ava sick, but just as I settle in the receptionist calls me to the window. “We’ll have to send this out. We’ll call you tomorrow.”
I am speechless. My dog is sick and needs medicine. I don’t want her to have to wait until tomorrow. But I realize there is nothing I can do. I decide not to cause a stink in the office or fall to feces about it. “Crap,” I think to myself as I leave the office with my tail between my legs.
To be continued……………………
(Number two of Number Two)
I call the vet the next day and find out Ava has no parasites. I am flush with excitement and relieved, as she has been from pooping so much, to know that she will be fine. It was just a false alarm. She probably just ate something that disagreed with her, as we all do from time to time, and it upset her stomach. And, she did seem better. Her poop frequency and consistency had definitely improved.
So, I need not stalk the creature in my pale pink Isaac Mizrahi’s until the next time she or one of the other two dogs seems sick. Until then I shall put away my “in case of excessive dog crap” supplies and decide to start cooking for Thanksgiving. But, with the memory of the funky poop so fresh in my mind, I can’t quite conjure up the thought of sautéing turkey gizzards to make the gravy. So, Detective Poopy Pants will pay some bills, do some laundry and basically do ANYTHING but cook gizzards for a few days until all the excrement of the past few days is behind me.
More from living