The Dirt Field

My dog and I stopped by my parents’ house this afternoon to pick up some mail. After being there for a while, Kobe started getting frisky and running around the living room and dining room in circles, obviously wanting to play. I started chasing him and was immediately joined by my father, who incited Kobe to excited hysteria. So much so, in fact, that Kobe ran halfway up the steps to the landing, squatted, and started to poop.

I panicked. My parents are not the type who want animals defecating on their carpets.

Without a moment of hesitation, I lunged forward, threw myself on the stairs, cupped my hands under his butt, and caught the whole mess. All of it. Every last piece.

I’ve never been more horrified in my life. You think you’re disgusted right now? Try being me. Just try. Or even try being my shocked and revolted father, who disdainfully handed me a paper towel followed by three heaping handfuls of soap. He had also pulled out a bottle of industrial cleaner to spray on my hands, but I drew the line at burning my flesh off.

Somehow I don’t think he’ll be asking me to set the dinnertable tonight.