HUMAN WRECKAGE

A Little Victory

Avenue is a glossy lifestyle magazine focused on the fashion, food and décor trending in Edmonton. There is a sister Calgary edition too. Its limited content is largely irrelevant to me as are its ads which trumpet expensive stuff I neither need nor desire. The May issue arrived at the Crooked 9 this morning, inserted into The Globe and Mail. It was particularly insipid.

I flipped through a six-page colour photo spread featuring the pampered dogs of prominent Edmontonians muttering, “Jesus,” repeatedly. The dogs were interviewed: What’s your favourite activity? “Hanging out with my humans.”  Where do you like to shop? Jesus. Everybody and everything get a grip.

I generally don’t mind dogs. I don’t even mind some of their owners. That said, I’ve been on a five-year mission, gunning for a certain neighbourhood dog lady. I know her name. I know where she lives. But I’ve never been able to catch her in the act of depositing her dog’s excrement in my back alley garbage bins. I’ve considered posting a rude warning on the fence. I’ve considered lying in wait with a Daisy Red Rider BB gun and winging her. And I’ve been careful not to let her infuriating behaviour become an obsession of mine.

Saturday morning was sunny and warm. I was working in the backyard, raking mange from the lawn and collecting the leaves I’d missed last fall because of the early snow. I was near the gate, facing the tumble-down fence. A dog strobed in the gaps between the slats. It squatted. I leaned on my rake. I watched the dog lady bag her next gift for me, knot it. She made a beeline for my garbage bins, a pink jacket flashing between the fence boards. Gotcha!

I lowered my voice into a deeper register. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

There was a pause. She couldn’t see me because she’s short and our angles in relation to the fence had changed. She heard the voice of God. “Are you speaking to me?”

“I am.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re about to put your dog dirt in my garbage bin which means I will have to fish it out and rebag it.”

“No I’m not!” The exquisite sound of schoolyard guilt and panic, busted.

“You are.” Ever the diplomat, I added, “If that’s not case then I must apologize.”

My thorny olive branch was accepted with a flummoxed silence from the lane. After a moment I heard the flap-slap of sensible walking shoes and the tac-tic of dog nails on concrete, a double scurry. The dog lady and her dog may pass this way again, I thought, but they won’t be stopping anymore. I don’t mind your entitled little dog, sister, or maybe even you, but I’ve had it up to here dealing with your shit.