My Dog Pooped on Ed Brown’s Lawn
I live in a little town, of about three thousand residents, on the furthest edge of San Francisco’s suburbs. North of town is out of San Francisco’s gravitational pull, west is real wilderness and the ocean.
Every night, after my young daughter goes to sleep, after the dishes are done and my wife and I have taken advantage of our magical five minutes of freedom to talk without our child interrupting but before we begin yawning, I take the dog for a walk.
My dog’s name is Snowy; yes, named after the terrier in Tin Tin. He’s not a small dog, though, like his namesake. He’s about 60 pounds of curly white hair, wiggles, and love.
We walk every night, whether I want to or not.
It’s not his fault that we have this routine, it’s mine. I’m in my late 40’s and I’m getting a gut. I don’t want my father’s gut. What better way to grind it down then to walk the dog? It sounded so right, so simple, so delightful. A man and his dog, out for a walk, looking at the stars, communing with each other and our world. It is, too, at least for Snowy. What started out to be a nice way for me to get a little exercise has turned into a nightly requirement.
Requirement isn’t a strong enough word, but nothing else fits.
The last time I didn’t take him out he shit on the floor. Twice. He’d never done that before. He’s not mean, or vindictive, but he is honest. “No walk? Okay, cool, I’ll just shit on the floor. No problem”. I haven’t missed a walk since.
I love the stars.
I grew up in northern Minnesota. The nearest town was a 30 minute drive away. We had stars. We had the northern lights. We could hardly keep up with the falling stars during the Persiads.
Later, I lived in New Mexico. If you want dark nights, go east or west of the Rio Grande in New Mexico. You’ll understand why the ancients thought the stars were close enough to touch. I got closer, though. I lived at the top of a ten thousand foot mountain for three months. You could hold the stars in your hand, like a touch pool at an aquarium.
Our town
In our little town, we, thankfully, don’t have much traffic, or I’d have been run down many times while walking Snowy, staring at the stars. You see, my job is pretty easy. I hold the leash, walk along with him, and when he poops, I pull out one of the blue plastic bags from the bone shaped bag holder on his leash and scoop up his poop. That doesn’t take much attention, so, mostly, I day dream (what do you call a day dream at night?) and look at the stars.
What that means is sometimes Snowy leads me places and it takes me a minute or two to realize where we are. Sometimes it’s the middle of the street, sometimes it’s the gate that brings us home, sometimes it’s, well, sometimes it’s someone’s yard.
Don’t judge me. Please. Yes, I let my dog poop in your yard, even if you have one of those cute signs that tell me not to let him poop there. But I always clean up afterwards. You’d never know we were there. Every time that happens I chastise myself and promise that tomorrow night I won’t let him poop in someone’s yard, but, each night, the stars attract me, like the siren call, and next thing I know, I’m bending down, in your yard, scooping poop.
Something you need to know about my little town. It used to be a cheap place to buy a house, back before the tendrils of San Francisco’s tech community reached so far. Now, though, it’s a haven for people, like me, that want to live in a small town with people that aren’t like me. There’s a tension here, between the people that have lived here for the last 20 years because it was cheap and beautiful and people like me that want to experience the beauty without being too far from civilization.
One of those old timers is Ed Brown. It’s a common name, but he’s not a common man. Ed Brown is a Zen priest. He’s best known for his book, “The Tassajara Bread Book” and the documentary “How to Cook Your Life”. He’s also known for his strong emotional responses. There’s an article about him (sorry, I couldn’t find a link) called “Confessions of an Angry Zen Chef”. As a elder in the Zen community, Ed deserves a great deal of respect. Plus I’m a little scared of him.
Ed lives a block from my house. His house is on Snowy’s favorite night time walk path.
You know where this is going, don’t you?
You’re wrong. Ed has never come running out of the house, yelling at us about dog poop on his lawn. No. By the time Snowy and I walk, all the lights are off at the Brown house and Snowy always trots past his lot, head held high, seemingly saying, “Nope, I don’t care to poop here”.
Normally Snowy and I walk about 30 minutes, just experiencing the world. He’s smelling everything, learning in his own way all the news of the day — “Which dogs walked by?”, “Was that big brown cat here?”, “Did the raccoons stop by here?”, “Did someone drop their ice cream cone on the side-walk?”, etc. Me, I’m looking up at the sky. At some unpredictable, to me, moment, it gets serious for Snowy; he gets down to business. He starts sniffling, back and forth, nose to the ground, back and forth, trying to find that perfect place to do his business. He finds it, and we head home.
This night, though, I was tired. I didn’t want to do my normal 30 minute walk with Snowy. I wanted to walk just far enough so he could do his business and I could get into my cozy warm bed.
Snowy understood this. He did. Those of you with a pet know what I’m talking about, those without will think I’m crazy. Sometimes you feel a connection with an animal, one where it’s clear the animal actually understands your desires and wants to help out. That’s what is seemed like that night.
As soon as we went out through the gate, Snowy immediately started sniffing around. Nothing was right, though. There’d been no dogs, no raccoons, no deer. Pooping there would have been a waste. Nobody would ever know.
He kept on, sniffing like a blood hound on a trail, looking for a spot worthy of his poop. I trailed along behind, mumbling encouragement, hardly glancing at the sky, just wanting to head home.
Suddenly, Snowy slowed down. His head went swaying back and forth, nose plastered to the ground. This was it, I knew the signs. I pulled out a poop bag and got ready. That’s when I realized where we were — Ed Brown’s house. Before that thought even sunk into my tired brain, Snowy hunched up and pooped. I quickly scooped, and we both scurried away.
We trotted home, faster than normal, Snowy often looking back over his shoulder, and, once we got past our driveway’s gate, he happily jumped a bit, as if he were feeling, as I did, that a weight was lifted. He’d done it. He pooped in Ed Brown’s yard and nobody was the wiser.
