The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank (8 page)

On the fourth day, my daughter took Arlo to Show and Tell. He blew it by showing too much and didn't have a finish, and a clean-up committee of one was delegated to do the honors. One of the children said if Arlo followed him to school one more time and he had to bring him home he was, going to kick him.

On the fifth day I reminded all of them that the rule of the house was that the first one to spot a puddle, etc., automatically cleaned it up. The entire household fell victim to indoor blindness.

On the sixth day, I said, “Has anyone seen Arlo?”

One of the children yelled back, “Arlo who?”

So much for security and affection.

I began to become suspicious that Arlo was not a registered Irish setter when his roots came in white, his nose was concave, and within six weeks he was eye level to the kitchen table.

This was confirmed as I sat in the vet's office one afternoon. I shifted uncomfortably as a woman read a magazine to a cat with running eyes, a pet raccoon ran around the playpen, and a small terrier mistook my leg for a forest.

Finally, a well-dressed man on my left with a small poodle ventured, “I am intrigued with your breed. What kind of a dog is that?”

“Irish Setter,” I said.

He looked astounded, “You have papers?”

“All over the house.” I got a firmer grip on the forty feet of pink plastic clothesline around Arlo's neck and ventured, “What's wrong with your dog?”

He looked soulfully at the poodle and patted it gently, “Jessamyn isn't sleeping well.”

“Me either,” I said.

“She's just been through a rather bad pregnancy.”

“Me too,” I said excitedly.

“Actually, Jessamyn is too highly bred and tense for motherhood.”

“I know what you mean,” I commiserated.

“We thought of aborting, but there was so much social pressure brought to bear, we finally consulted a psychiatrist who thought it best to go through with the births and then get them away from her as soon as possible so she could pull herself and her life together again and then exercise some measure of birth control. What's wrong with your . . . Setter?”

“Worms.”

“How disgusting,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I wonder what's keeping that vet?” he said. “I have some flowers in the car for Jessamyn's mother.”

“Jessamyn's mother?” I asked, my eyes widening.

“She's (he leaned over and spelled slowly) P-A-S-S-E-D-0-V-E-R. Jessamyn and I go once a month to visit. They were very close. She's at the Bow Wow Cemetery. Beautiful grounds. Incidentally, if you ever go on a vacation and need a reliable shelter the K-9 Country Club is a marv. Restricted, you know. None of your tacky clientele. The ones with the new luggage. They have a chef there you wouldn't believe. Well, ”he said as he was summoned, “Nice meeting you and good luck to—what's-his-name?”

“Arlo.”

“Oh my God,” he said, touching his nose with his linen handkerchief and sniffing.

Because I am basically a “swift” person, it didn't take me long to realize that Arlo and I were to become an “item.” Just the two of us. I fed him, kept his water bowl filled, got him shots, license, fought fleas, took out ticks, and let him in and out of the house, 2,672 times a day.

My husband came home one evening to view the dishes on the breakfast table with hardened egg, the unmade beds, the papers from the night before strewn all over the living room, the laundry spilling out over the clothes hamper onto the floor, and said, “Fess up! You've been playing with that dog all day long.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you have a future in comedy . . . along with Jane Fonda and Eric Sevareid?”

“C'mon now,” he teased, “look at the way that little dickens is jumping up and down.”

“The little dickens is aiming for your throat. He wants out.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “He just came in when I did.”

“So now he wants out. I go through this over two thousand times a day. The dog has a Door Wish. He can't go by one without scratching it until it opens. The other day he scratched, barked, and jumped for fifteen minutes. Finally, I opened the door and he ran in and two minutes later started scratching again. He realized he was under the sink.”

“Why does he want out so much? Maybe something is wrong with his kidneys?”

“A dog with kidneys the size of a lentil could have better control than he has.”

“I got it,” said my husband, snapping his finger. “We'll go out when he goes in. That way we'll confuse him into not knowing if he's out or in.”

Standing there huddled in the darkness on the cold porch scratching with our paws to get in, I tried to figure out where I went wrong. I think it was when my mother said to me, “You're not getting any younger.”

“You are going to think this is a dumb question,” I asked, “but why did we get a dog in the first place? I mean, if it was for the kids, forget it. All it has done for them is to keep them from looking down when they walk.”

My husband took me by the shoulders and I saw shock written on his face. “Do you mean to tell me you really don't know?” he asked.

“No.”

“We did it for you,” he said.

“You bought a dog for me?” I asked numbly.

“But of course. For your protection. Maybe you don't realize the dangers of being by yourself out here in this wilderness. There are loonies and crazies running around all over the place.”

“True, but we're all on a first-name basis.”

“You may be as light about it as you like, but just wait until some day when I am at work in the city, and a wild-eyed stranger knocks at your door and wants to use your phone on some pretense and you'll be mighty thankful Arlo is around.”

I looked at Arlo. He was lying on his back in front of the fireplace with all four paws sticking up in the air— passing gas.

The mental picture of a sex pervert at my door and the only thing between us was Arlo, sent a shiver down my spine.

It was several weeks later that Arlo was to be put to the test. I answered the door to find two men standing there rubbing Arlo behind the ears.

“Pardon us,” said one of the men, “but our truck broke down and we'd like to phone our company for help.”

I grabbed Arlo by the collar and jerked him to his feet. “I must apologize for the dog,” I said. “I'll try to hold him so he won't tear you to shreds. Down boy!”

The men looked at one another and shrugged as the dog blinked sleepily and slumped to the floor. “He looks pretty friendly to me,” said one of them.

I knelt and pushed back Arlo's lip to show his teeth. When I released the lip, it fell back into a ripple as he licked my hand. “You may not believe this but I had to register this dog with the police as a deadly weapon. Just ask anyone around here and they'll tell you about Arlo.”

“Arlo?” the men grinned.

“Steady boy!” I said, propping him up to get him off my foot. “Just don't make any sudden moves,” I cautioned.

One of the men came inside to use the phone while Arlo and I held the other man at bay at the door.

“Why, one of the kids was just playing around one day,” I related nervously, “and inadvertently punched me on the arm. Arlo liked to have made raw meat out of him before we could pull him off.”

“Is that right?” asked the stranger.

His friend returned and together they thanked me, playfully pushed Arlo over on his back, scratched his stomach, and left.

As they walked to the car I heard one say, “Boy, that was one terrifying experience.”

“What, the dog?”

“No, the woman. She's a real whacko!”

They were probably right and I realized things weren't going to get any better when one afternoon I answered the phone. It was Mr. Wainscott.

“Remember me?” he asked. “I'm Jessamyn's father.”

“Of course,” I said, “from the vet's waiting room. Jessamyn is the one who had the same symptoms as I had. I've been dying to ask what the doctor prescribed.”

“Lots of bed rest, time to herself, no major decisions, analysis, and a light social calendar.”

“I guess one out of five isn't bad,” I said. “So, how are things?”

“Fine. I was calling to ask if Arlo could attend Jessamyn's birthday party. Are you there?”

“Yes,” I said. “A birthday party. Where?”

“This Saturday at two. We live two blocks north of the highway next to the golf course. You can't miss it. Oh, and it's informal.”

When we arrived a dozen or so dogs romped around the room.

“So glad you could come,” said Mr. Wainscott.

“I must apologize for the present,” I said, “Arlo ate it on the way over.”

“That's perfectly all right. Gang!” he shouted, “this is Arlo. Arlo is one of Jessamyn's neighbors. Don't be frightened,” he said as Arlo stood at the sink and licked water out of the spigot. “He's big for nine months. Why don't you pick Arlo up in a few hours ?”

I don't know what happened to Arlo at the party, but he was never the same dog after that. One day I caught him looking at his teeth in the bathroom mirror (Jessamyn had her teeth capped). Another time, he hopped on the bathroom scale, gasped, and refused to eat table scraps any more. One afternoon, I begged Arlo for ten minutes to go outside. He was sitting in a chair watching David Susskind.

The only time he seemed happy was in his encounter group.

The Garage Sale

There are four things that are overrated in this country: hot chicken soup, sex, the FBI, and parking your car in your garage.

What's such a big deal about pulling your car into a garage if you have to exit by threading your body through an open window, hang from a lawn spreader, climb over the roof, and slide down a garden hose before reaching the door.

Our garage was a twilight zone for garbage, the dog, old papers, boxes, excess laundry, redeemable bottles, and “projects” too awkward (big, dirty, stinking) to have in the house. So was everyone else's. In fact, there was a garage clause in most of our accident policies that if we were folded, bent, spindled or mutilated while walking through our garage we could not file a claim.

Then one day something happened to change all of that. Helen came over so excited she could barely speak. “How would you like to go to a garage sale?” she asked.

“I have one.”

“You don't buy the garage, you ninny,” she said. “That's where the sale is. A woman over in the Dreamland Casita plat just advertised and I want to check it out.”

A good fifteen blocks away from the sale, we saw the cars bumper to bumper. I had not seen such a mob since the fire drill at the Health Spa.

We parked the car and walked, slowly absorbing the carnival before our eyes. On the lawn, a woman was trying on a skirt over her slacks. “Do you do alterations?” she yelled to the woman who had sold it to her.

“Whatya want for 25 cents?” she yelled back, “an audience with Edith Head?”

Inside, mad, crazy, frenzied ladies fought over an empty anti-freeze can for $1.50 and an ice cube tray with a hole in the bottom of it for 55 cents.

One lady was lifting the snow tires off the family car and shouting, “How much?” Another was clutching a hula hoop over her shoulder and asking, “Are you sure this is an antique?” An older couple was haggling over a pole lamp insisting it would not fit into their car, and arrangements must be made for a suitable delivery date. It was marked 35 cents.

Outside, Helen and I leaned against a tree. “Can you believe this?” I asked, “I feel like I have just attended Alice's tea party.”

“What did you buy?” asked Helen excitedly.

“Don't be ridiculous,” I said, “It's all a bunch of junk no one wants. I didn't see anything in there I couldn't live without.”

“What's that under your sweater?”

“Oh this. It's the only decent thing worth carrying out.”

I held it up. A framed picture of the “Last Supper” done in bottle caps.

“Isn't that exquisite?” I asked.

“That is without a doubt the worst looking picture I have ever seen. Look how distorted the faces are and besides, Judas is rusting. How much did you pay for it?”

“Six dollars,” I said defensively.

“Six bucks?” said Helen doubling over, “you've got to be kidding.” As she laughed, an electric iron dropped from behind her handbag.

“What's that?” I asked.

“An iron. I really needed an extra one.”

“It doesn't have a handle.”

“So why do you think I got it for 75 cents?”

“Look,” said a lady who had been standing at our elbow for ten minutes, “arc you going to buy this tree or just stake it out so no one else can get to it?”

“No,” I stammered . . . moving away.

She dug her shovel into the soil and began moving dirt.

Frankly, I didn't give the garage sale another thought until another neighbor, Grace, said to me one day, “Why don't you stage a garage sale?”

“Because spreading one's personal wares out in a garage for public exhibition is not only crass, it smacks of being tacky.”

“Pauline Favor made eighteen bucks,” she said.

“Get the card table,” I snapped.

My husband was less than enthusiastic. “Those things are like a circus,” he said. “Besides, we need all of this stuff.”

“Hah!” I said, “that is all you know. This stuff is junk. One of these days we'll wake up and find the junk has taken over. We won't be able to move for boxes of rain-soaked Halloween masks, and stacks of boots with one missing from each pair, and a broken down potty chair. If you want to live like a pack rat, that's your business, but I've got to make a path through this junk—and soon.”

In desperation, he gave in and the garage sale was scheduled for Thursday from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.

At 6:30 a.m. a woman with a face like a ferret pecked on my kitchen window and said, “I'll give you 30 cents for this door stop.”

I informed her the doorstop was my husband who is not too swift in the mornings and if she didn't put him down this instant, I would summon the police.

By 7:30 there were fifteen cars parked in the driveway, nineteen on the lawn, two blocking traffic in the center of the street, and a Volkswagen trying to parallel park between the two andirons in my living room fireplace.

At 9 a.m. I opened the garage door and was immediately trampled to death. Grace said she had never seen anything like it.