Mr 3 Cents

THE “S” WORD    

Stevie Wonder

Stevie Wonder

 

Have you noticed lately there is a bombardment of single letters bandied about in print and on the air waves? I could list them alphabetically a, b, d, f, g, m, n, o, p, s but they don’t nearly have the intended impact unless they are grouped as in common usage; a–hole, m—f–, g–d—-, SOB, p—-off. The latest in unspeakable letters stands alone – “n.” Remember the good old days when all the keys you never used on the typewriter (now keyboard) found emphasis and importance? #*”!&?#*/? It’s a wonder that we understood stories or columns at all, what with having to use our imagination to fill in the blanks or “blankity blanks?”

I suppose that the ultimate shortening of these terms, offensive to some,

understood by most, is a necessity in these times; not so much for the sensitivity and concern we feel for our fellow man but for the fear of retribution, possibly in the form of more wildly flung letters but more likely the fear of legal ramifications. In other words, call me an “SOB,” and I’ll probably sue your “a–”off.

If I were a sociologist/linguist, I might proceed with an analysis of society’s ever changing mores and sensitivities and the effect of environment versus heredity on our verbal patterns and accepted epithets. But I’m neither of those.

I am a walker. This in itself is very strange in today’s society, but if you think about it with the exclusion of the bedridden, we’re all walkers. We walk to the car to drive the two blocks to the store, we walk to the refrigerator to get a diet soda, and we walk to the couch to retrieve the remote control from the baby. But if you venture outside, you will undoubtedly encounter, unpleasantly, I might add, the “s” word.

Now we can euphemize it and call it “poop” or “doodoo,” but it’s “s–” and

when you step in it, it quickly becomes “g–d— s—.”

I digress. Walking is a wonderful thing. Of course, it’s good exercise providing you don’t spend fifteen minutes of a twenty-minute stroll talking to the neighbor next door. Walking stretches the legs, pumps the heart, fills the lungs with fresh air and doesn’t hurt nearly as much as running. (Come to think of it, have you ever seen a happy looking runner?)

Anyway, I walk but seldom alone. I write alone all day long so I have bought the only love money can buy, Maxwell, my dog. Of course, it became clear that although most of my time is spent hovering over the computer that frequently I venture forth to lectures and movies and had to leave Max alone.

Call me a softy, which is what they did at the Humane Society when I picked up Turner. So now I walk with two dogs. And did I mention my friend Kay and her dog, Schroeder? We get noticed when we walk in the mornings, mostly because we take up the entire sidewalk, although we do step aside for the lonely souls who are on their way to the office. I suppose it’s like seeing a triple baby stroller in the mall. You smile feebly at the parent who knows you are thinking “why on earth did they do that to themselves?”, but then you realize they had no choice and you heave a sigh of relief that it isn’t you or your grandkids, so more power to them.

The total, and final count, for these morning constitutionals, is two bi-peds, three quadrupeds, three leashes occasionally entangled like a Maypole and four plastic bags. These last items are essential, one for each dog and a spare just in case one of the little darlings is so inclined to twice bless us.

I would very much like to leave a mark on society other than my dog’s calling card; that’s not the way I would choose to be remembered. So, I diligently and without inhaling, pick up with my plastic bag what he leaves with pride. I would wager by the piles of “s—” we walk past on a daily basis that this concept has not been universally accepted and it really “p—–“me off. It truly astounds me that dog owners are so brazen in this handgun toting age to not pick up what is so boldly left on a sidewalk or front lawn by their pets.

There’s a little plot of grass about two blocks from our front door which doesn’t clearly belong to anyone even though it is close to a nicely kept lawn. Well, any number of piles of “s—” began to appear and of course, stay, because as diligent as I am about tending to Maxwell and Turner (that’s a labor of love) I’m not about to shovel “s—” for some “g—d—” lazy “SOB.”

One morning as our entourage walked by we noticed a cardboard headstone erected with a sad bunch of flowers planted at the bottom. “Here Lies the Dog that Pooped Here.” This joke didn’t sit right with us, especially the short-long ones, Maxwell, Turner, and Schroeder. They sniffed and confirmed that there really wasn’t a dog buried here, but I could tell by the stillness of their tails and the look in their eyes as we paused reverently at the grave site they had questions. I could swear Max said in dog language, “Hey, what’s a dog supposed to do, huh?” I thought about it, and he was right. It wasn’t the dog’s fault. The very next day we erected another mock tombstone stating, “Here Lies the Owner of the Poor Dog Who Pooped Here.” Yes, that had a better ring to it and with the final swing of the hammer, tails began to wag and we continued on with bags in hand.

In New York and other large cities, they strictly enforce dog curbing laws with heavy fines. I hope it doesn’t get to that here. Man’s best friend does like to romp outside and chase leaves and woof at squirrels. But no one likes to step in “s—.” It saddens me to see signs in parks that say “No Dogs Allowed.” Maybe they should read “No g–d— Irresponsible A–hole Owners Who Refuse to Pick-up Their Dog’s S— Allowed.”

That has a better ring to it, don’t you think?

 

Author note: While looking through my files for a different essay, I came upon The “S” Word, written several years ago. Thus, for those of you familiar with me beyond social media, dogs Maxwell, Turner, and Schroeder named have gone to dog heaven.