Last June Michael, Calvin and I took our first trip in four years. We hopped on a plane to visit Calvin’s grandparents in Florida. They live in a beautiful, quiet neighborhood with huge arching live oaks dripping with gauzy swags of Spanish moss and casting large cool shadows over the homes.
A few miles away live our two young nephews who, one muggy afternoon, came to visit us with their parents. I took Calvin for a walk in the stroller, accompanied by my sister-in-law and her boys, then age ten and twelve, both of whom have autism. We brought Abigail along on a leash, their grandparent’s miniature Dachshund whom the boys have grown to trust and love. Other dogs, however, terrify the boys, at least until they’ve had a chance to warm up to them.
A block or two into our walk past a string of somber, earthen colored homes, and as we rounded an easy bend in the road, we spotted a mother with her two little kids and their old, fat, female Dachshund. The hound was off leash while they were loading up their car and she excitedly waddled toward us to say hello. My nephews, fearing a strange yapping dog with long yellow teeth quickly closing in on them, went berserk, screaming in sheer panic.
Understanding the dog’s innocent desire to greet us I knelt down to pet it and keep it a safe distance from the boys who were cowering behind me. The owner approached narrowing her eyes as if we were aliens from another planet. She looked angry. To cut the atmosphere I said “hello” but she remained silent and cross. “How are you today?” I continued. Still no answer. As she abruptly whisked the dog from my gentle grasp I explained, “the boys are afraid of dogs, it’s okay.” Frowning, she continued to give me the stink-eye so I wished her farewell and sourly told her to have a nice day, clenching my teeth to bar the word “bitch” from escaping.
Our spirits ruined, we turned around to saunter home. While raving about the injustice that had just occurred, and minding our own business, I fairly glimpsed two tanned elbows propped against a short bank of mailboxes, their matching rusty mouths chattering away. The two hens gawked at us as we passed. The blond one called out to me, “that dog is friendly, ya know.” “That’s fine,” I replied in a flat tone, “but the boys are afraid.” The other chick scoffed with an ugly snort, as if laying an egg, which provoked me to boom “so what business is it of yours anyway?” I finished off with a sardonic remark about their warm and welcoming neighborly spirit.
The incident left me steaming. In the cool of the air-conditioned house I became a block of dry ice and it took me a couple of hours and a glass of red wine to sufficiently melt. I simply couldn’t believe all of the ignorant bitches that were off leash that day. At least I didn't have to deal with their daily doo doo, because that stuff sure stinks.
A few miles away live our two young nephews who, one muggy afternoon, came to visit us with their parents. I took Calvin for a walk in the stroller, accompanied by my sister-in-law and her boys, then age ten and twelve, both of whom have autism. We brought Abigail along on a leash, their grandparent’s miniature Dachshund whom the boys have grown to trust and love. Other dogs, however, terrify the boys, at least until they’ve had a chance to warm up to them.
A block or two into our walk past a string of somber, earthen colored homes, and as we rounded an easy bend in the road, we spotted a mother with her two little kids and their old, fat, female Dachshund. The hound was off leash while they were loading up their car and she excitedly waddled toward us to say hello. My nephews, fearing a strange yapping dog with long yellow teeth quickly closing in on them, went berserk, screaming in sheer panic.
Understanding the dog’s innocent desire to greet us I knelt down to pet it and keep it a safe distance from the boys who were cowering behind me. The owner approached narrowing her eyes as if we were aliens from another planet. She looked angry. To cut the atmosphere I said “hello” but she remained silent and cross. “How are you today?” I continued. Still no answer. As she abruptly whisked the dog from my gentle grasp I explained, “the boys are afraid of dogs, it’s okay.” Frowning, she continued to give me the stink-eye so I wished her farewell and sourly told her to have a nice day, clenching my teeth to bar the word “bitch” from escaping.
Our spirits ruined, we turned around to saunter home. While raving about the injustice that had just occurred, and minding our own business, I fairly glimpsed two tanned elbows propped against a short bank of mailboxes, their matching rusty mouths chattering away. The two hens gawked at us as we passed. The blond one called out to me, “that dog is friendly, ya know.” “That’s fine,” I replied in a flat tone, “but the boys are afraid.” The other chick scoffed with an ugly snort, as if laying an egg, which provoked me to boom “so what business is it of yours anyway?” I finished off with a sardonic remark about their warm and welcoming neighborly spirit.
The incident left me steaming. In the cool of the air-conditioned house I became a block of dry ice and it took me a couple of hours and a glass of red wine to sufficiently melt. I simply couldn’t believe all of the ignorant bitches that were off leash that day. At least I didn't have to deal with their daily doo doo, because that stuff sure stinks.
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| photo by Michael Kolster |
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