Or Not to Be by Laura Lanni Read Free Book Online Page B

lucky: my voice never woke Joey. It just made him smile
and gurgle in his sleep.
    Eddie said, “Take that last part out, will
you?”
    I made a dramatic X through the offensive
section that pinned the dog hate on him.
    “Thanks. Go on. I’m still listening,” he
whispered.
    “Your expressions of love have resulted in
your dog behaving like a brat. He does not know or follow traditional, standard
dog rules. He barks excessively. He does not stay in your yard because you have
no fence. You do not leash him. You let him out the front door, and you stay
inside. He runs free to my yard and craps on my lawn. He crushes flowers and
runs through bushes. He has no idea where his boundaries are. You are happy
because you love your dog. He is happy because he does not know any better. I
am miserable because of you and your dog. The anxiety and frustration of your
actions are overwhelming.
    “I honestly have never lived in or even
heard of a place where packs of large dogs ran free through neighboring yards.
Where they barked and played and crapped wherever and whenever they pleased. It
is baffling and has led to a partial loss of my mind.
    “I feel better for having told you. Now
you can be mad at me. Hopefully, while you hate me, you are also keeping your
dog quiet and at your home. Then the cost of sending this letter was worthwhile
and, maybe, part of my mind will return to me.”
    “Good!” he declared. “Let’s stop at
Kinko’s on the way home and make copies. But don’t sign it. Then tomorrow in
the middle of the night, we’ll drive around the neighborhood with our
headlights off and put one in every mailbox. Nobody will suspect us.” He was so
brilliantly deadpan, I couldn’t help laughing.
    “I could never send it, Eddie. But it felt
good to write it.”
    “I know. I’m glad you did.” He put his
large hand on my leg and squeezed.
    “What other kernels of advice do you have
for me, Mr. Fixit?”
    “How about this? When Joey learns to walk,
we’ll get him a little shovel and train him to pick up poop in our yard and
fling it into the street. If we start early, he’ll think it’s just naturally
his job and never complain.”
    “Nope. My son will not be exploited as a
pooper-scooper. Next idea, please.”
    “Then you could do it. Each day, pick up
the piles of fresh dog droppings and dump them in a paper bag. Then deposit it
on the dog-owning-neighbor’s front porch, set a burning match to the bag, ring
the doorbell, and run.”
    “No! I’ll burn their house down!”
    “I doubt it. They’ll open the door, find
the burning bag, and put out the fire by stomping on it.”
    I lost myself in giggles. He was crazy.
    For the next few
months, I developed my own strategies—which also failed. Daily, I called my
neighbors or found their children outside playing. I reported the newest loads,
and I asked them to pick up the poop, which, of course, they always did. But it
was usually a big production and rather embarrassing for all involved. Often
they came to my door and insisted that I come out and help them find the smelly heap.
    Finally, without
any real forethought, I tried a new tactic. After arriving home to find Goliath
happily relieving himself by my garage door, I ordered the wind to hold my
caution and all calls, and I abandoned my mind. I picked up the mess, gross and
still warm, in a plastic bag and walked across the street to deliver it. I didn’t intend to set it up in flames and run.
Instead, I rang the doorbell with the stinking bag in my hand, a sick look on
my face, and Goliath prancing around and occasionally sneaking a sniff at my
crotch. Sometimes in life, I wondered how I ended up where I did. Exactly like
now. How can I be dead?
    That
night, I confessed my impulsive strategy to Eddie over dinner, with Bethany
groaning in embarrassment and Joey gleefully tossing mashed potatoes at the
wall.
    “It was a large load, Ed. Sorry, you’re
eating. But you’re a doctor, so you’re used to