December 22, 2020
Open and Closed Case
I have a problem with plastic bags. You know, those little thin ones at the grocery store for produce or for picking up after your dog? My problem is that I can never, ever, get them open. I watch with envy as others display great dexterity and slight of hand, effortlessly peeling away the corners and releasing the grand opening.
I’m that lady in front of the broccoli, muttering expletives, licking the tips of her fingers for traction and frantically trying to determine which is the right end of the bag! A few moments later, the swearing continues as I strike out once again over by the ground turkey.
So the moral of this story should come as no surprise as I tell the tale of WHOA from this morning’s walk with my Sharpei, Teddy. Teddy is a good walker. He keeps his emotions close to the vest, his body close to me and typically saves his business for his own backyard.
Let me set the scene…6:00am, a dark and frosty December morning. My daughter and I are returning from our morning constitutional. Teddy pauses, he can hold it no longer. Assuming the position, he deposits a mound of excrement so hot, so steamy and so large that if the smell had not rendered me speechless I would have congratulated him.
Since it was dark outside, I had to rely on my nose to locate this display of his splendor. Reaching into my pocket for my trusty poop bag, I began the painstaking process of attempting to open said bag. Mind you it is dark, mind you my fingers are freezing cold and mind you I cannot get that stinking bag to open.
At just that moment in time, a lone car heads around the corner, illuminating the squatting dog, the frantic female and the aforementioned Tower of Teddy. Talk about a deer in the headlights! As fate would have it, the owner of the house upon which Teddy had just made a statement without saying a word, pulled in his driveway.
Sheer panic led to the series of decisions that followed. I could not get that bag to open. The sands in the hourglass of confrontation and humiliation were bearing down upon me. In blind desperation, with the as yet unopened bag in my hands, I aimed for the offended area, subsequently plunging both hands into the abyss. One has to have experienced this to fully appreciate the range of sensations and emotions associated with submerging your hands into hot-off-the-presses poop.
With both hands full, we got the heck out of Dodge. My daughter compassionately attempted to commiserate with me for the rest of the walk home. I remember her talking to me, but I don’t remember replying. At one point I heard her ask me, “Mom, are you still there or have you gone to another place?” When we got home she rinsed off my hands, brought me disinfectant wipes and promised that this would go in the vault with all our other shame filled secrets.
Moral of the story: pre-open your poop bags.

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