Prose
For Hire: Topless Dog Park Goddess of Terror
by R. Baker
It's a thrill to watch well-off ladies pick up their dog's shit, all dainty with a plastic bag, until I realize they probably think this makes them a grounded person who deals with daily hardships, or as a man I know would say, First World Problems. And it's a first world problem for me too, trying to figure out if they are Express well-off or Nordstrom well-off because you can buy sleeveless black 'shell' tops and A-line floral skirts at both stores, but I'm not savvy enough to tell the difference in point-of-purchase quality.

These well-off dog ladies look breezy even when its barely six o'clock and they are just home from a grueling day at the office. They kick off their sensible low-heeled pumps and slip into sandals that snake up past their ankles, sexy and kinda Grecian. They unbutton their fitted oxford button-down with the subtle darts at the bust to reveal a tasteful cami-tank and they take their dog to the park before re-heating their lunchtime leftovers of Asian-American fusion cuisine. Their polished ponytails, not too jaunty, swing as they bend down, bright blue poop bag in palm, nary a highlighted strand flying free and curling around their pale, pearly ears. They chuckle at each other when they meet and one of their dogs does the biz. They share the mild embarrassment of witnessing that little shit dangle-freeing rump shake that dogs do in lieu of toilet paper. I like to think they trade secrets about floral puppy enemas and medications for chronic dingle berries.

When I see these women I imagine I have a big, slobbery mix-breed pound mongrel that I ride through the park topless, despite my appendectomy scar and sports bra-induced cleavage rash showing. I'd let my dog shit everywhere and not pick it up, even if it were on the sidewalk. I'd have something symbolic in my hand, like a torch, made of fresh-out-the-BOX tampons. My dog would ideally have a noble under bite and red eyes, to accentuate the flaming torch. The well-off dog ladies would clutch their understated handbags to their chests, coiling their leashes around their bloodless fists as we thundered past, bodily fluids raining in our wake like creamy dewdrops. I would not just be home from work because my avocation would strictly be scaring the shit out of these women at the dog park. I would be keyed up because I had waited all fucking day for this.

I know, if I check craigslist several times a day, someone will post up a vacancy for this job. And I'd be perfect, I mean, just perfect, even though I like cats more than dogs. I think a cat person would do better anyway, since dog people are often so invested in their preference. The well-off dog women can sense a cat person, I'm sure, and it would add to their terror. Especially an aspiring Crazy Old Cat Lady like myself. If this were some screwball 1930s comedy they would say LOOK AT THAT COOT. But since it's the post-millennium they would not say anything, instead they'd furiously text message or take a cell phone picture and think UNBELIEVABLE! After a couple weeks, they would get used to my presence and maybe ask about my career and we would trade tips on the best area veterinarians. Slowly, so slowly, they'd get comfortable with their dogs' excrement and juices and the fact they too are leaky ooze sacks, held in by a bit of skin, meat, and tufts of hair. We would joke about the dingle berries and our periods. And then, only then, would my job be done. At that park.
Posted by: R. Baker

Prose (May 18th, 2007)