For Erin: Poetry, Finally (but not Final)

Until now, this space has been devoted to non-fiction musings. But I am a poet (a spectrum writer -- everything from technical communication to poetry), and I have recently embarked on a book-publishing journey. [Recognize a "hook" when you read one?] Last night, in the manila file folder with my 65+-page poetry manuscript, I re-discovered scraps of paper with a poem in my scribbled and crossed-out handwriting, ready for typing and editing. Here is the result.

The Franchise

Before I make the long drive home in early autumn darkness,

My daughter and I meet between her classes for afternoon coffee.

While she digs for dollar bills and comes up empty,

I watch the cash register item-display

                        ...Tall Latte $2.95

                        Pumpkin Bread $1.85…

WAIT, I protest to the cashier.

That should be one-SEVENTY-five.

No, she says. The computer rang it up for one-EIGHTY-five.

I see that, but the bakery case sign clearly reads

                        Seasonally Delicious Pumpkin Bread $1.75

There’s nothing I can do, she says. We had a price increase,

but we haven’t received new signs from Corporate.

            (Toothy, vacuous smile followed by hair toss.)

Appealing to her moral center, I suggest

You can make a new sign yourself to avoid future false advertising.

We’re not allowed to alter their signs,

So there’s really nothing I can do.

While my brain tries to calculate the Corporate profit

earned when every customer

who celebrates the delicious pumpkin season

is overcharged ten cents,

            Erin glides away from me,

toward the Pick-Up Order Here counter,

distancing herself again from my principal-of-the-thing outrage.

I can’t resist one last attempt as I hand over my cash.

You CAN do something, I assert.

You can give me an extra dime.

The register drawer pops open –

She counts back the change for my ten dollar bill

exactly as the computer tells her to

Plus ten cents more.

I smile, tossing the dime into the tip jar.

There is something

I can do.

From One Dog Person to Another

Clarification: I am not a dog person. I am a 3-dog person.

My first dog actually belonged to my sister. Though Fritz was her dachshund, I loved him, too. He was a playful dog – spoiled, but not fat or lazy. He ran after us kids as fast as his little legs would carry him. He licked my face, I squealed. We hid milk-bone treats for him, and he raced around the house trying to find them. He pooped in the back yard; we cleaned it up. We had a nice back yard with lots of grass, ornamental plants, and fruit trees. Fritzi-poo was not particular about where he did his business, but my dad paid particular attention to how well it was disposed of by all of us kids.  Dad, mechanical engineer that he was, made a Super-Duper-Pooper-Scooper to facilitate the clean-up. It was a long-handled, 2-part device (broom and dustpan, perhaps?) that helped us deliver the contents to the trash can without having to touch it. I may have received some small compensation for scooping poop, but more likely I just had to do my duty after Fritz did his.

After Fritz died, there was a period of doglessness in our household before I got my own puppy, a beagle-terrier mutt with long legs and classic beagle coloring. I chose the name Ajax, after the Greek god I’d read about in Bullfinch’s Mythology, but my sister said people would think my dog was a cleaning product. So I named him Oliver, instead, for the high school musical in which my brother had a starring role as the Artful Dodger (not a good dog name). I fancied myself a puppy whisperer and tried to teach him tricks; I also imagined myself an artist, so I observed Oli from the vantage point of a tree branch, and drew him, in pastel pencil, while he slept. Like Fritz, he pooped in the yard, but he was my dog, and my siblings were older and busier by then. Thus the poop was my responsibility, until my mother and I moved to an apartment and Oliver went begging for another home.

The third dog joined our little family shortly after our daughter was born. He was a gift from dear friends who bred AKC yellow Labradors and had a litter of 10 puppies. They “tithed” one of these pedigreed puppies to us. We named him Erin’s Bonnie Prince Charles, and called him Prince. He was a beautiful broad-chested dog with boundless tail-wagging energy. When not playing with Erin or any number of our visitors, he roamed for miles in the open country of the Navajo reservation where we were then living. He came home several times a day, and spent every night in a fenced rabbit or chicken pen (Doug had transformed it into a suitable dog domain), and some of the day in our sort-of fenced “yard” – a dirt area with a shade tree. We raked, scooped, burned or buried his doo-doo (I’m guessing that’s what Erin may have called it); there was no such thing as municipal trash pick-up.

And that is why, today, many years later and with no dog, I am writing this piece about dog shit. I live in a community that not only has regular waste management services (trash and recycling), but also has convenient little green dispensers throughout the neighborhood (including walking trails) from which citizens can obtain a green plastic bag with which to clean up their dogs’ waste. We also have many reminders, from stern official County Ordinance placards to friendly, hand-made “If you walk our loop, please scoop the poop!” signs.

Why is it, then, that on every one of my walks within a 10-mile radius of my home, I find dog poop? True, I also see deer and rabbit pellets, coyote and bear scat, horse and cow dung…. But none of those offend me as much as the dog crap, especially when it is already encased in a little green bag and left behind a rock or in a bush. I try to imagine what the dog owner is thinking. Her dog stops to do his business; she stands nearby, waiting. Then she does the right thing, pulling the little green bag out of her fanny pack. She puts her hand inside the bag, gently grabs the fresh feces, pulls her hand back out, and knots the bag. So far, so good. But then she leaves the bag on the sidewalk or behind a rock for someone else to pick up and dispose of! [New grammar rule: ranters are allowed to end sentences with prepositions.] There are often trash bins nearby where I spy these green baglets, so there is no excuse for the dog walker not to take the final step in the circle of good citizenship. But even if there is no bin, it is still her responsibility to take the bag with her until she locates a receptacle. Tie it to your dog’s leash! (You DO have your dog on a leash, right?)

If you are a Dog Person, especially one who lives in my neighborhood, please have the decency to clean up after your beloved pet. Or as we say in New Mexico: "Keep the Rio Grand. Scoop the Poop!"

The Finger

Two café tables away sits an impeccably dressed older gentleman in a gray suit of subtlely striped fabric, light shirt and tie, and an orange – soft, burnt orange – knit beret. I cannot see his face because he is holding his forehead in his left hand. With his right hand, he alternates between spoon and fork to eat his meal, one small bite at a time. Sometimes he changes the position of his left hand – instead of an open palm propping up his brow, he uses his fist against his left cheek. Without such support, his head falls very far left and forward – just like my mother’s did in the years of illness before she died.

She never used her hands as head-supports, however, at least not that I remember. When she was still able to sit up in a wheelchair or in bed, she would sometimes ask for a pillow to be placed between her shoulder and her left ear, particularly when she was trying to eat or drink what was being offered to her. But her hands had become rigid, except for The Finger.

Her right index finger remained in her control long after her torso and limbs, neck and voice ceased cooperating with her brain. When we would take her to the mall, a favorite outing, she would direct us from her wheelchair, pointing the finger toward her desired destination.  Despite her multiple disabilities, she could point her way to the perfume counter, the bed & bath store, or the lingerie department. At the food court, the finger made it clear that she wanted a dish of ice cream and a cup of water (for taking pills). The finger also knew the location of the candy shop, and could select the perfect piece of chocolate (for pure pleasure).

The man in the orange beret has finished his meal. His chin rests on his chest as he folds his napkin and places it on top of his plate. He scoots out his chair, and fumbles for something in his suit pockets, eventually producing a handkerchief. As he walks past me, I notice that he’s also dropped a blue card, but by the time I retrieve it – a printed schedule of High Holy Day services at the local temple – he has gone. The waiter told me that she regularly serves him during her evening shift. She promises to give him his card the next time he appears. I hope to see him again, as my new office is located conveniently closeby.