call of doody

Doggy Doo

Oh, yes, it’s a poop post. I really do try to refrain from discussing poop here. Most of the time. But not now!

So I got into my car right after a run a couple days ago and it was pretty evident right away, from the smell, that I had stepped in dog poo.

My heart sank to the ground and, to my dismay, tears stung in my eyes. The overreaction was the sudden flood of memory from the Poo Shoe Incident of Third Grade.

One of the weird trends when I was 7 or 8 was the wearing of saddle shoes, but not in black and white leather. What the gals of Hopi Elementary School were sporting were saddle shoes made with constrasting suede in the most excruciatingly awesome 70s  color palette — mustards, purples, browns. I wore my mom down and she finally got me the shoes I coveted. Mine were extra supercool because there were suede smiley faces on the sides.

The first day that I was going to wear them, I was in an exalted mood. I even went to the garden and picked a couple roses to give to my teacher.

It wasn’t until late morning music class that my best friend sniffed the air and asked “do you smell poo?” I did, and at the time, I had no idea it was coming from my feet.

It wasn’t until about lunchtime that I noticed it. Somehow, when out in the garden, I had managed not only to step in our dog’s poo, but actually got it smeared on the side and even top of one of my shoes.

I was completely, totally destroyed. All I could do was to pretend that it wasn’t me when the smell was noticed throughout the day.

When I got home, my mother (bless her) did her best to get the shoe cleaned up and back to normal.

But it was too late. It was tainted and I never wore the suede, smiley face saddle shoes again.

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