THIS STORY is about guilt. Not that horrible guilt that comes from some monstrously anti-social type behavior.
Nah, I’m referring to that nagging guilt inside us all that is the result of doing the little things that we know that are wrong.
We are all guilty, don’t tell me otherwise.
Maybe you keep your eyes open during the prayer. Fudge on your taxes. Blow your leaves in your neighbor’s yard.
There’s always some little thing that makes us feel guilt. It’s what defines us as human beings.
Our own feelings of trivial guilt are what allow us to exist with our spouses, families and friends. I mean seriously if you’re going to put the toilet paper roll on a certain way just to rile your wife, isn’t it fun to just imagine the guilty antics of others?
Guy comes out of the bathroom, you heard him run the water in the sink. Did he wash his hands? Not!
Nothing but a ruse to appease our needs. But does he feel any guilt over it? Obviously we think he should, I mean if we’re at the sink next to him, he at least rinses off.
What gets me, is we continually repeat our actions even though we know they’re wrong. Guess the guilt doesn’t amount to enough to change our behaviors.
Now if the grocery store manager embarrassed you in public for eating a few grapes before checkout, perhaps you then would change your ways, or maybe at least feel a little guilt the next time .
Take my significant other (that would set up a great Rodney Dangerfield joke), she’s got her share of idiosyncrasies. I won’t reveal all her faults, but I’ll tell you one that just ticks me off. What’s worse is she knows it, so every time she repeats the behavior, it’s premeditated.
Where’s the guilt?
We share a bathroom, she’s got a sink, I’ve got one too. There’s no physical line down the middle of the counter, but we both know where the DMZ is.
We’ve also got more towels than we know what to do with. I’m guessing she has stock in Cannon.
What is her dastardly bathroom habit that I find repulsive and she revels in tormenting me with? She takes her makeup off at night with my towel. Folds it back and puts it on my side.
I wash my face at night, look down and am greeted with a mess of black and brown all over my supposedly clean towel. If I’ve asked her once, I’ve asked her a couple hundred times to please not do it. She continues despite my urging and loathing, and seems to actually get a kick out of it.
Is this woman evil or not? A bathroom sociopath?
Okay — I’ve hinted at what y’all might or should feel guilty about. I’ve pointed out my woman’s shortcomings, how about myself.
I don’t pick up after my dog. She’s really not my dog, she’s the Jensen’s (does that let me off the poop hook?).
I never did it with any of my own dogs either, so I guess that doesn’t hold water. In my defense though, I never let her go on anyone’s property. I also carry a bag and police my route, picking up all refuse (non-fecal) that is.
I just can’t get my mind around (or in this case my hands) the idea of handling my dog’s droppings. We called it dog’s dirt where I grew up in New Jersey.
Tommy Schmidt was always the last kid chosen for a team in my neighborhood. We once made him move a pile off of second base if he wanted to play.
Great story here if I go on to say he played for the New York Mets years later, but sadly while he loved the game enough to pick up the poop, he never was a player.
When did this human’s handling of dog’s dirt start? I understand I am a dinosaur in many aspects of my life. I actually still read the newspaper, read real books, and write letters.
Karen swears I’m stuck in 1975. Well I can state unequivocally, that in 1975 no one ever entertained the idea of handling their dog’s droppings.
So is this 2018 version of myself such a bad person because I won’t handle my dog’s waste products?
Actually yeah, and I do get it, the whys and wherefores behind this modern phenomena. A dinosaur yes, a moron no.
I know myself though, it’s a bad behavior that I’m going to continue doing unless persuaded otherwise. So far gentle chiding from my mate, sidelong dirty looks from my neighbors, and my conscience have failed to step up to the plate.
It’s not like I’m the only dog walker who is slack. A couple of my buddies on the same Richmond Drive route I walk are as guilty as I am. Don’t worry guys, I’m not going to “out” you now, but if I do go down, I’m taking you with me.
What’s it going to take for me to come around? I’m like that grape stealer in the grocery store: It’s going to take me being caught in the act, and publicly berated for it.
Now I’ve got some size to me, but don’t be intimidated, I’m really a big wuss. I do know when I’m wrong though, and I’ll take your chastising like a man.
There’s a car coming the other day on our walk down Richmond Drive. “Best get our big butts over, or we’ll be run over” I tell Isabella (a woman that actually listens to me).
So we cross the grass median to avoid the vehicle, as we always do. I put Izzy up at her house (I’ve found borrowing canines has all the rewards and none of the responsibilities of ownership), and I continue down my street to my abode.
As I walk into the living room and tramp all over my wife’s hand made Hereke carpet that she spent a small fortune on in Turkey, I sense something is wrong.
She frowns and asks “what’s that smell”? As I look down and see the mess I’ve tracked into the house all over my shoes, I realize I am in deep s#*t, (er I mean dog’s dirt).