Bruce’s Online Journal

“I write because I don’t know what I think, until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor

Week of April 2, 2001

April 8

I’m going out on a limb to say I think spring has arrived on the North Coast. Tuesday and Wednesday this week were sunny and fairly warm. We had two days of April showers after that, but it still remained fairly warm. We’re talking 50s here. Yesterday, the last of the ice on the pool cover melted and when a warm front moved through last night, it brought the year’s first thunderstorms.

I wasn’t really paying attention last night. It’s been a long and tiring week and even after sleeping away most of the day, all I wanted after the meeting was bed. I was counting off the minutes to bedtime by the usual method of listening to the trains go by. I stopped reading to listen to the one that passes at around a quarter past ten and suddenly there was a terrific, house-shaking BOOM and my first thought was, Derailment!

I thought about bleeding, dying passengers lying in the dark, twisted wreckage, then I remembered that this particular train was a freight train. That sent me off worrying about poisonous gasses and wondering which way the winds would blow the cloud of death. Then the rain started hammering at the window.

Ahhh! Relief, I thought. It’s a thunderstorm, not a train wreck. Which, of course, brings its own set of worries, like, I’d better get the dogs inside or I’ll be smelling wet dog all night.

Yes, Mark’s been gone for just over a week and the dogs and birds have been my responsibility. It’s been late to bed, early to rise, which explains why I was s tired I slept the day away yesterday. Of course I could always go back to bed, and a couple of mornings I slithered back under the covers for a couple of hours. But it’s that late-stage sleep I need the most and it’s tough to recapture it after I’ve been up a while.


The skies cleared overnight setting the stage for a wonderfully bright spring morning. It was nearly 60° already, the air still smelled clean from the rain last night and the ground was still wet, making everything shiny looking. Even the dog poop was glistening in the sun.

I don’t know how two dogs can make so much poop. Do they invite all their doggie friends over to help out? This is what I think they’re saying when they bark at the neighboring dogs. Hey, they love poop over here. They collect it twice daily and keep it in plastic bags so it stays fresher, longer. C’mon over here when you need to poop.

Although the day was clear and sunny, I must have still been in a fog when I was on poop patrol this morning. Perhaps I was distracted by the dogs jumping up on me as if to say, Didn’t we make nice poop for you today? Are you as happy with it as we are about making it for you? Maybe I was hypnotized by the fresh poop glistening in the sun. Maybe the Universe was playing a mean trick on me for thinking, Thank heavens it’s the last day of this. Nearly 20 pick-ups and I haven’t spilled any, gotten it on my hands or stepped in it.

Washing up at the kitchen sink afterwards, I smelled it. Yes, there it was, molded right in around the tread in my boots. Nice, fresh, shiny dog poop.

Oh what the fuck. We’re all adults around here. Dog shit. I must have backed up and stepped in a nice steaming pile of dog shit.

So my boots are out on the deck, drying in the sun, because I’ve learned that it’s much easier and cleaner and certainly less odiferous, when you clean dried dog shit out the cleats instead of attacking it right away while it’s still fresh and gooey. Thank heavens for warm sunny days.

And thank heavens I don’t have to clean the birdcage.

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