When the weather sizzles, tempers heat up—and mine is no exception. That is why I must be especially mindful at this time of year to practice: Restraint of tongue and pen. With those words in mind, I would like...
When the weather sizzles, tempers heat up—and mine is no exception. That is why I must be especially mindful at this time of year to practice:
Restraint of tongue and pen.
With those words in mind, I would like to apologize in advance to any readers who feel that I should have refrained from sharing the following tale, which admittedly touches on a subject that would be unsuitable for polite conversation over a shared repast.
I will now return to the topic of restraining oneself when temperatures soar, and to the regrettably repugnant incident that inspired this post.
Was I ever ready to raise a ruckus yesterday when I exited my back door and discovered at the edge of my parking space a revolting oversized “present” from somebody’s oversized dog. Fuming, I rushed into my house, found a large shoebox and wrote on it in large print with a purple marker:
SHAME ON YOU FOR LEAVING THIS FOR YOUR NEIGHBORS TO STEP IN. TAKE IT WITH YOU AND THROW IT OUT!!!
Still incensed, I scooped up the “present” with a plastic bag, dropped it in the shoebox and placed the box on top of a small patio table. Next I positioned the table where anyone cruising the alley for a canine commode could easily view my impactful display and be shamed into removing any puppy “presents” from the vicinity. Or maybe, if I got really lucky, the person responsible for the unwanted “gift” would return and take it away.
Then I marched back into my house to sulk and harumph on the couch.
None of this made me feel any better.
Indeed I felt worse for escalating things. With my irate actions, I was embracing and perpetuating the negative nose-thumbing energy of the dog walker who had sullied my parking space. I was not, as recovery teaches me to do:
Living in the solution.
Nor was I following the sober advice to:
Keep my side of the street clean.
I decided to try a different approach. Rather than wait (in vain) for the culprit to return, view my sign and sheepishly dispose of the doggie waste, I resolved to solve the problem myself. I retrieved the shoebox, bagged it and dropped it into the trash.
Immediately I felt better. It seemed that cleaning up the mess, which removed an eyesore (to say nothing of a hazard for sandal-clad feet), was what we refer to in sobriety as “doing the next right thing.”
I must confess, however, that since this unfortunate incident I have been keeping a suspicious eye on the folks walking their pups in the alley. I am even harboring a tiny hope that one day I might catch and scold a scofflaw in the act of letting his pooch leave a “present” alongside my car.
I can live with that. As it says in the sober literature:
We are not saints. The point is that we are willing to grow….
