May 24, 2020

Labradoodle

I wouldn’t be picking up dog shit with a small plastic bag if I could have remembered if it was garbage day or recycling day.

Check that.

I wouldn’t be picking up dog shit with a small plastic bag if I could have just remembered to keep my mouth shut.

The street I live on in Toronto alternates between recycling and garbage each week. I guess every street in Toronto is like that.

On our street, the pickup is on Thursdays.

I am pretty good at remembering on Wednesday night that there is a pickup the next morning. What I am not so good at remembering is whether it is garbage or recycling. I don’t know why. I just can’t do it.

I can recite all 50 states.

I can, if you give me a minute, even remember all 50 state capitals.

But damn if I can remember if it is garbage or recycling.

So what I usually do is walk over to the neighbours and check which bin they have put out. The recycling bin is blue and the garbage bin is gray but from a distance they kind of look the same, so I have to actually walk over and check for myself. The problem is my neighbour on my left doesn’t put out the bin until early morning—which doesn’t work for me. And the neighbour on my right—a lovely old Scottish man—has been wrong twice. Which meant four weeks until my overflowing garbage bin gets picked up.

Not a pretty scene.

So I usually end up crossing the street. The family who lives there puts out the bins early and never gets it wrong. They too are a lovely family with two small kids who have been my cross-the-street neighbours for nearly five years.

And I can’t remember their names.

Am sure I knew their names at one point and may have even been reminded. But I now had no clue.

Which would be okay if not for the fact that every time I saw the husband, he greeted me with an enthusiastic, “Hey, Ron.” Like he was trying to stick it to me.

On that particular Wednesday night, the coast looked clear, so I quickly crossed the street to take a peek—recycling—I fucking knew that and was making a hasty retreat when I heard the screen door open and heard his cheerful, “Hey, Ron.”

I had recently defaulted to, “Hey, neighbour,” but I knew he knew that I did not know his name and every conversation was just a tiny bit uncomfortable. This one was not any different but it was short and would have been totally innocuous had it not led to me picking up dog shit with a small plastic bag.

He asked me how things were and did not wait for my reply when he announced that they were going to get a dog.

I said, “Oh, yeah.”

And he said yeah. The wife wasn’t totally on board, but the kids had been really on their case and what with all that was going on and the distance learning and everything, he thought they deserved it even though the wife wasn’t totally on board.

And I said, “Oh, yeah.”

Then he said they were thinking of a labradoodle.

Did I know what that was?

I did, but he proceeded to tell me anyway.

He finished explaining the hybrid process and the breeder in Milton they were getting it from and then waited for me to say something.

So I said that I was thinking of getting a dog.

Although I wasn’t.

“That’s great,” he said. “Have you decided what kind? Have you lined up a breeder?”

And I said, “I’m not really a breeder type of guy.”

Although I was.

“I think I will probably get a rescue. You know what they say— ‘adopt, don’t shop.’”

I didn’t know who said that. I had no idea where I had even heard it.

But, for some reason, it shut him up, and I managed to cross the street back to my house and drag my recycling bin to the curb.

And that should have ended things and kept me far away from dog shit and small inverted plastic bags, and it would have if Mrs. Katsakis had not died.

Mrs. Katsakis was a Greek lady who lived three doors down. She tended her garden most days. In 10 years, I had never spoken to her. I may have waved at her thrice. She lived three doors down. In my world, it was as if she lived in Myanmar.

I did not know her name.

She was the Greek lady who lived three doors down.

I would not have known her name if my neighbour from across the street had not knocked on my door and said, “Hey, Ron, Mrs. Katsakis has died.”

I did not know who Mrs. Katsakis was, but I didn’t really know any other Greek ladies, and there was no other Greek lady that the neighbour across the street and I had in common, so I was able to piece it together.

I mean, I wasn’t a complete idiot.

I’m not sure why my neighbour from across the street thought I needed to know about Mrs. Katsakis. I mean, it was sad and all, but I wasn’t sure what it had to do with me. I figured maybe he was collecting some money because I never saw anyone visiting her and she lived in this small bungalow, and even though I didn’t know her from Adam, I was happy to do my part, especially if it helped get rid of my neighbour from across the street.

So I said, "Hold on, let me go get my checkbook,” even though he hadn’t said anything about money and had really only told me that Mrs. Katsakis had died.

I retreated into my house when he said:

“She had a dog.”

And I said, “Oh, yeah.”

And he said, “Yeah. And I remember you saying you were thinking of getting a dog.”

And I said, “Oh, yeah.”

And he said, “Yeah. You said you wanted to adopt. Her children live in Vancouver. There is no one to take the dog. So I thought of you. I mean, it feels like serendipity.”

Serendipity.

It felt like he was trying to stick it to me.

I asked him what kind of dog.

“A Scottish Terrier. Her name is Olympus.”

Olympus. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

So now I am walking my new dog down the street. Olympus. Stopping from time to time to pick up the shit with a small plastic bag.

I am scooping up the shit when I suddenly remember my neighbour’s name:

Ethan.

Fuck.

I should have remembered that.

It is Wednesday night and Ethan has his garbage bins out. I drop the bag of shit into his bin.

Then I cross the street and go home with my dog.

The end.