The Poop-Scootin' Boogie

Hello pumpkins. I've missed you. It's been a little while since I've blogged. My lack of blogging was actually a feeble ploy to see who would start harassing me to blog, and also to see how long it would take. I'm totally manipulative that way.

Just kidding! I was just not inspired to write anything new lately. I was recently blessed, however, with an insane situation with a neighbor, and you all will be benefiting from these shenanigans.

But, before I get into that, I must point something out, if you haven't noticed it. I refrain from using curse words in my blog (although I think I might have written H-E-double-hockey sticks a few times. Shhhhhh.) So, why don't I write like a truck-stop waitress talks? There are a few reasons. I know some former, current, and possibly future employers read it (as well as my mother). Also, it's a challenge to try to be funny without swearing. Let's be honest here, the judicious use of an F-bomb every now and then really helps to get your point across, and can definitely add humor to a situation. But even though I frequently find it funny when others pepper a conversation with a lot of four-letter words, I also think it's a short-cut on the way to Funny Town. And finally, as the late, great ODB once said, "Wu Tang is for the children." I feel the same way about my blog.

I'm telling you all of this because it's going to be a monumental task to not swear during this blog post. I'm going to have to get creative here, people, and practice a lot of breathing exercises. Giddy up.

So, as mentioned, this situation involves a neighbor. I have no fear of her discovering this blog post because she is 82 years old. But she doesn't look a day over 79. Just kidding, she is actually quite spry for an old broad. We'll call her Bea. She goes to Curves three times a week, runs her own business, drives competently (as far as I know), and has an...er...active romantic life with her octogenarian boyfriend. Ugh. Bea overshares sometimes, too. I've repressed most of the details of the boyfriend stories, so no need to worry about me relaying those to you. The mind has an incredible ability to protect itself.

Bea's also quite sweet, and I'm often tasked to help her do things like put on a necklace, fix her TV when she's mistakenly pressed a wrong button on the remote, or hook up her answering machine. I'm more than happy to help with any and all of these kinds of requests. My generosity has its limits, however.

Last week, I walked out onto my back patio to get my mail. (Yes, my mail comes to the back of the house. Don't ask). There, standing in the middle of my patio is Bea. My yard is enclosed by a six-foot privacy fence, but we are friends with the neighbors on both sides, and they pass back and forth frequently. So it was not entirely unusual to see her standing there, but I was surprised to see a pink leash in her hand with a white fluff ball at the other end of it. Bea had gotten a dog! This was not just any dog...this was a Coton De Tulear with a pink hair elastic hoisting its bangs up into a Pebbles Flintstone-style 'do. Bea proceeds to introduce me to...wait for it...Diva. She has taken ownership of the five-year-old dog from a friend. My radar immediately goes up. I know what's coming. Diva is in my yard because she is visiting her new toilet. Sigh.

Pittsburgh is a hilly place, and yards are rarely flat. I'm lucky enough to have one of the more level ones. Bea, however, has a few concrete steps to traverse up to get into her yard. She also has a neighbor on the other side of her, with which she is mortal enemies (long boring story). Using my yard as Diva's personal dumping ground enables Bea to both avoid the steps and the prying eyes of her arch rival.

I give Bea the benefit of the doubt for the moment, however, and refrain from asking why she's in my yard with Diva. (For the record, Diva seems like a sweet dog. I should also note at this juncture that I am not a dog owner at the moment, and have been enjoying a doodie-free yard since I had to put my yellow Lab down last year. RIP Eddie.)

Bea and I exchange niceties about the dog, and go on about our day. Late the next evening, I spot her tippy-toeing around in my yard again with Diva. She was sporting a black velour zip-up robe, bed head, and no make-up. I head outside to see what's up. Bea tells me she's happy to see me, and asks if I mind if Diva does her business in my backyard. She chalks it up to the fact that I have a fenced-in yard (she does not), and the dog can roam free here. I make some non-committal grunts as she rambles on about picking up after the dog. As we are chatting, Diva heads out to the far corner of my yard and proceeds to drop a deuce while twirling around and around, so there are several landmines rather than one civilized pile. Bea looks at me, slightly chagrined, and says, "The one time I forget to get a bag!" Suuuurrrrrre. She heads back to her house for a grocery bag, while Diva continues her pooping pirouette. The dog was clearly not having an entirely satisfying potty break.

Bea marches to the back of my yard with a flashlight and a Giant Eagle bag, but quickly turns on her heel and tells me it's too dark to see the doodie, and she'll report back for hazmat duty in the morning times. All the while, Diva remains engaged in her awkward poop dance throughout my backyard. Bea heads back to join me on my patio and we resume our chat. Diva joins us within seconds, and proceeds to SCOOT ON HER BUTT across my patio, six inches from my flip-flop clad feet. I'm trying to think of a couth way to say this, but I think that train left the station long ago. Let's just say that the journey Diva's furry little butt took across my patio left a significant...er...skidmark. Ugh.

Bea looks as mortifed as the woman can, and tells me she'll get some water. I tell her not to bother, and I head for the garden hose. I'm sure my patio was due for a good washdown anyway. After thanking me profusely and telling she's lucky to have such a good neighbor, Bea heads back home with Diva in tow. But not before I advise her to take a look at Diva's rear end as soon as she gets inside. No doubt that dog needed some assistance that could only be provided by opposable thumbs and a lot of wet paper towels.

I'm left stunned, unsure of how I'm how I'm going to get myself out of this situation. Perhaps I'll be calling Doodie Deeds in the near future.

This whole situation makes me think of this scene from "Billy Madison."