I consider myself infinitely (inexplicably) fortunate to have a husband who treasures me. I love everything about him - even the really dumb stuff like the way he always locks his keys in the car. (In fact, for the last five days he's been using a spare set of keys after having misplaced his normal set entirely...)
Today I love him just a little bit more because today when I went to the mailbox the dreaded doggie doo was gone. (This was most excellent timing for on this day my junk mail did indeed disassemble itself, sending my Rite Aid coupon book fluttering to the once soiled ground...) I thought for a moment the disappearing dung was a Christmas miracle, but when I expressed to my husband my utter elation, he confessed that he had disposed of the stool sample the night before.
Now handling dog feces has always been, in my opinion, penis work. In fact, the phrase "penis work" was coined while watching my future sister-in-law shovel dog shit from her yard. Since my husband has a penis, this small act of kindness shouldn't really rock my world the way it has. I think it is the anonymous nature of the turd that makes this act extraordinary. It's one thing to process the product of a beloved pet. It's altogether another thing to pick up after someone else's pooch. Or maybe it is just that my husband is working so much (to support my parasitic ways) that I am touched he would take one of his very few moments of spare time to free me from my coprophobia.
In any case, today I celebrate my remarkable marriage and my feces free path to postage.
An Easter Miracle
6 years ago
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