Picking up droppings a small price to pay

Every once in a while my wife hears me say, “I wanna go home!” When my whining becomes unbearable, we head for the calendar to identify a time frame for yet another return to “The Fatherland,” i.e. Western Montana.

Friends often get in my face when I get into this mode. They point out that I’ve lived most of my productive adult life, and raised four children, in a home in the middle of the Spokane Valley. Some even go so far as to suggest that I need to grow up, telling me to get over my Montana obsession. A couple of these so called buddies have gone so far as to state that my bride should kick me in the hind when I start my Montana song-and-dance routine, and they’re probably right. But, after 40-some years together we’ve mentally become two peas in our little pod. My girl enjoys the sound and smells of a clear brook cascading down its rocky streambed, or the vista of a green valley encapsulated within its mountainous borders, as much as I do.

I picked up the telephone a week or so ago and heard the voice of my longtime buddy, R.C. “Bull” Drummond, on the other end of the line. Bull and I have been inseparable friends since the second grade. The opening line of his conversation was, “Why don’t you two join us for a couple of days at the condo next month?” I’m sure most of you have seen a mallard duck in pursuit of a June bug. Bull didn’t have to proffer that morsel a second time. I almost tripped over the phone line on my way to the calendar.

Consequently, Bull and I were chattering up a storm as we strolled down a country lane on a beautiful sunlit morning in Montana a week or so ago. I used to be able to double, maybe even triple, task without a problem. But the years have taken their toll. I should have known that I no longer can walk, talk, and soak up magnificent mountain vistas at the same time, especially when walking down a country lane in Montana.

My first hint that disaster was about to strike came when Bull shouted, “Watch it!” Glancing down, I realized I was on a collision course with a huge juicy mass of fresh horse manure. My mind commanded my body to step briskly left, then to leap smartly to the right, and finally to spring sprightly over the mound of smelly road apples before me. Unfortunately mind and matter were not in sync. My shoes plowed right through the middle of that odiferous mass, braking to a gradual stop just before reaching its outer edge.

While I’ve never been a world class athlete, I’ve generally been able to compete decently with the rest of the Chevys and Fords running around town. To be faced with the reality that my body performed more like a 1-ton 4X4 truck coming to a stop on ice, was hurtful. Bull’s comment, “Those were some of the best head bobs I’ve ever seen,” didn’t help either. In fact, the whole episode has provided a lot of food for thought.

I’ve concluded that road apples and country lanes in Montana kind of go together, but horse manure and the Centennial Trail do not. I’m also pretty sure that doggie doo scattered along the edge of a country lane or in its adjoining fringe areas is OK, but similar litter when deposited on our city’s byways or the neighborhood’s lawns, isn’t.

I’ve walked our neighborhood’s streets with a springer spaniel on the end of her leash for the better part of 30 years. I can’t describe the hole that exists in my being since we had to put our last doggie girl down two years ago. My, how I miss having her around.

I know the cost of plastic bags and the effort needed to bend over to pick up your hound’s droppings is a small price to pay for all the loyalty and love you receive in return.