I Touch Their Poo: Ladies Night
Instead of join a conservation work force in Australia, I wake up every morning and attach leashes to dog collars. So when I run into people I know, its all the more bemusing to them that I what I do. When it happens to be someone I made out with at a party, it becomes all the more obvious that my profession isn’t “professional jetcopter pilot, but I dabble in globetrotting archaeology” like I may or may not have said it was.
Chester the 19-year-old spaniel and I were hanging out in Rittenhouse Square when just such a person, Carly, and some dude with forearms that indicated he had spent the day overpowering twelve-year-olds, turned the corner, headed straight for me. Carly and I had a “friendship” that ended when her alarm clock went off the next morning, so there was no need to try and put on a show.
But with Chester as small as he is, from her side of the fence, it would appear that I was just spending my Sunday evening standing in the foliage that borders the park with my hands on my hips, commanding some unseen life form to “… just poop already.”
“Hi, Carly!” I greeted her enthusiastically. I was in a hurry to get to the part of the conversation where I could explain myself. ”I’m walking this dog down here, not lurking in the bushes.”
Below, there was an undeniable “CRUNCH”, and I quite rationally assumed Chester had finally taken the step that had shattered all of his bones. Realizing that no, I had just stepped on a dead leaf (though Chester had managed to wrap his leash around his face and stared up at me pleadingly to remedy the situation) I looked back up and she had gone. Actually, the street was totally empty.
Honestly, I don’t even know for sure if it was her.
As I said last week, when people do offer commentary at me while I am on the job, it will often be to the dog. But when people do speak to me (and they do) , it is always with questions to which I do not know the answer. And that have to do with the dog.
A couple of older ladies business casual-ing their way out of the high class restaurants approached me as I was exiting the square and assuming Chester was once again taking his final breaths on this earth. They stopped to admire the “puppy” and I was forced to bring the caravan to a halt so they could watch him hack and weeze. It was “just darling,” apparently. These women were clearly unfamiliar with the behavior of actual puppies.
“Is it hard for him in this heat?”
“It’s getting hard to distinguish which types of weather are the hardest for him,” I replied. But this was actually true. Come on, this dog is a poorly timed car horn away from his heart exploding. I’m sure “weather” as a general concept is not very accommodating to his health, when anything from a torrential, merciless blizzard to a dandelion blowing in the wind could spell the end. I mean, look at him. You can practically see the last grains of sand falling through the hour glass.
A week or two ago, I was looking for a lost house key on the street with Chester on my hip (He is carried for about 85% of his “walk”) when some heavily muscled torsoes with t-shirts on them stopped me for a bit of impromptu convo.
“You walk dogs? That’s your thing?” one of them asked.
I nodded. They looked at each other.
“You must get so much ass,” the other breathed in awe.
I looked at the women they were with and felt bad for her, but she was probably grateful for some kind of diversion from them soliciting her for a three way for the last hour and a half. My nod was a lie, however, as “getting ass” was not anywhere on the job application I signed. Its a challenge to get a girl to talk to you with a sack of dog diarrhea in each hand.