Dog and Other Shit
The thing was that as I was scooping the poop I wondered whether I might have inadvertently stepped in some. There did not seem to be a week’s accumulation; but I had not cleaned the lawn for at least that long.The security line at the airport was the longest I had ever seen, but we were able to bypass it by joining the Medallion Flyers line. I really did not fly that much, but by dint of the fact that I charged over $50,000 per year on my Amex card (mainly wholesale immunizations for my office which was about $100,000 annually) I got to be a Silver Medallion member. I used three trays to unload my jacket, coat, belt, watch and computer. As I removed my right clog I noticed that something was horribly wrong: there was a large glob of dog shit and leaves embedded in the crevasses of the sole.
“I’ve got dog shit on my shoe,” I announced with both bravado and chagrin to everyone within earshot. Then, “I better put this one in its own tray.” I grabbed another and carefully placed the offensive clog, sole down, in the grey plastic official TTS (Transportation Security) tray.
On my way to the first men’s room I could find I stopped at a coffee bar and picked up a plastic spoon. Just inside was the infant changing room. As a pediatrician I felt strangely at home. I locked myself in and took in my surroundings. Lots of counter space to change a diaper, a large garbage can lined with a 5 micron thick Mylar bag, a paper towel dispenser, a water spigot and a hand soap dispenser. I took off the offensive clog and began scraping the debris into the garbage can. There were a few dirty diapers lining the bottom. Perfect, I thought.
After a few scrapes, I tried to rinse off the sole and the spoon. It was one of those automatic faucets that run only when something is in direct line to be wetted, or so I thought. Holding the clog underneath had no effect, no water. It only ran when I put my hand below it. Was it heat regulated? How does it know?
The proper technique seemed to be to hold both my hand and my shoe in line with the flow of water. Once I figured it out the rest was easy. There was something comforting about using the infant changing room and I was relieved that no needy fathers with soiled children were queued up at the door when I sheepishly opened it.
By the time we got to Charles de Gaulle hours later I had forgotten the incident. Jody had not. Once we got settled in our apartment we ventured out in our effort to beat jet lag. A small men’s shoe store was around the corner.
“Let’s check it out,” Jody said. “Those look really nice,” she suggested, pointing to a pair of black and brown shoes with a French sounding name. Ten minutes later I walked out of the store carrying my clogs and stepped on a pile of French dog shit. Don’t believe anyone who tells you theirs doesn’t stink either.
