Pooper

I saw her, and her ratty little dog, just as I arrived at my mailbox. Even with her floppy hat and dark sunglasses I could tell that, while no spring chicken, she was very pretty and had a great body. She had her dog on a leash, and he seemed to be having a fine time sniffing around the edges of the brown and green wasteland that on some days I still am able refer to as a “lawn” without bursting into derisive laughter.

I decided that I needed to meet this woman because, well, what did I just tell you in the first paragraph? I smiled hello and then I removed my mail from the box, slowly and deliberately thumbing through each of the envelopes. I doubt that she had ever before met a man who seemed to be so utter fascinated by his PG&E bill.

I continued to be mesmerized by my mail, all the while planning my next move, when suddenly it dawned on me. She most certainly knew that I purposely stalling, but she was way off as to the reason why. I became convinced that this woman believed that I was hovering around my mailbox because I was waiting to see if her dog was going to poop on my lawn and, more importantly, exactly what she was going to do about it if he did.

In truth I do spend too much of my valuable time shoveling canine deposits off my lawn and into my flower bed. (Say what you will about the horticultural value of steer manure, my roses seem to prefer dog.) For years I never got the humor of those little gravestones you can stick in your lawn that say, “Here’s lies the last dog that pooped in my yard,” but I sure do now.

We had arrived at a standstill. I continued to fumble through my mail, occasionally glimpsing at the attractive women, while she stood patiently and waited for her dog to stop snuffing my weeds. I now felt that if I walked over to her the first words out of her mouth would be something defensive and possibly sarcastic, like, “Don’t worry, I’ll pick it up.” And defensive and sarcastic is certainly not the preferred manner with which to begin a potentially torrid affair. That’s for after you’re married.

I waited a little longer, and as I did I began to notice that I was now stealing more glimpses of the dog than I was of the woman. Oh my god, could it be? Was it really possible that I actually was more concerned about the dog pooping on my lawn than about meeting this enticing woman?

My friends, it was a dreadful realization, and it sent a cold and soulless shiver down my spine. These then are the dilemmas we often face when of a certain age that lies somewhere between hormonal young satyr and crotchety old man. And it’s no secret in which direction we’re headed, either.