Sticky Fingers, Almost
There are certain images that all of us carry in our heads that we wish could be magically erased, like seeing someone naked we shouldn’t have, Father O’Malley, or a nasty dead body, Father O’Malley. I just inserted another one in the bank that will probably stick with me for the rest of my life or at least until I’m back in diapers.
The whole thing started out harmlessly, you know, three little kids playing in the yard being supervised, I use that term loosely, by me. The nosey little bastards decided to trek behind the humongous playhouse back there and I didn’t think much of it. Then it dawned on me that our dog evacuates his system in that general area daily and I hadn’t picked up the excrement yet that day. I hurried back behind the structure after I set my margarita down and my son met me halfway smiling. I noticed he held something out in front of him that didn’t seem right. When my mind comprehended what I saw I realized that it was a large piece of dog shit. I wish I had a camera with me because this scene replays itself over and over in my head and I don’t think it’s fair for me to keep it all to myself.
Let me just say that it’s a good thing that my dog must’ve eaten right the night before because the “log” in my son’s hand was solid. It was so solid that after I casually ripped it out of the boy’s hand while simultaneously screeching there wasn’t any trace of it to be found on him, not even with the taste test.
I almost sent the boy back to playing without washing his hands because that seemed like a waste of time because they appeared to be clean, but the parental guidance angel told me that I better do it so I could honestly say I did even though it was totally unnecessary.
On my job I see some grotesque things, but this one beats them all. Something about my boy holding my other boy’s waste in his hands makes me want to cry… or laugh. At least he didn’t put it in his mouth as far as I know.