Frank the Pug
“Dogs won’t shit where they sleep,” I explained.
My best friend had just received a wedding gift from her husband—a Pug named Frank—and I was fielding questions on the subject of puppy rearing.
“Crate training Frankels will give him a home base within your condo and help him potty train. He’ll like it.”
It turns out that any future for me as an animal behaviorist is pretty unlikely. Frank went on to not only poop in his crate, but also cover himself in the evidence. Poor little man.
While I have used expressions involving variations of excrement and slumber for all different aspects of life, an eight-week-old Pug had made me rethink the equation. Little Frank had, in fact, shit where he sleeps—a fact that sent me back to the drawing board.
Thinking about my bunk advice to my bestie, I realized that my life concerns aren’t all that different from Frank’s. Whereas progress for him involves learning that it’s not okay to create a mess in the same area in which he plays, eats and sleeps, progress for me involves…well…learning pretty much the same thing.
Whether this truth is sad or endearing, I’m not so sure.
Hearing news of the pending 9/11 terror trials scheduled to take place in New York leads me to believe that the issue of returning to or living amongst the scene of a crime (in all of its varied meanings) is a timely issue. Beyond the dispute over the trials’ placement in civilian, as opposed to military, court, it appears that much of the public outrage revolves around the pain inherent in the reunion of crime and place. For many, returning the accused to the city of their attack hits too close to home. I can’t claim to approach a comprehension of the pain inflicted upon the families of 9/11 victims. At the same time, however, I question how realistic avoiding perpetrators of the past—as a person or a country—truly is.
In my own mundane way, I feel the residue of the past every single day. I leave my apartment each morning only to be faced with landmarks of a bygone era. I walk my dog and have run-ins with characters from days of yore. Hell, I don’t just shit where I sleep, I also sign 16-month leases there.
From an outsider’s perspective, though, the separation of poo and place seems almost unhealthy. Significant distance from our past indiscretions would preclude the insight that only comes from hindsight. And what better way to look backwards than to have an impromptu staring contest with it on a Tuesday evening while en route to the gym? Longest “Do Not Walk” signal of my life, I tell you.
Treading through the debris created by our individual wrecking balls is a direct means of confronting ourselves at a fundamental level. These excretions are the byproducts of what define us—our thoughts, our words, our actions. Their appearance may vary, their intensity fluctuate; however, the grace (or occasional lack thereof) with which we handle our refuse is a true test of something, be it character, patience or self-awareness. A&E’s “Hoarders” is a phenomenon for a reason, after all, and it’s not because the subjects’ possessions are just “things”.
Sometimes, when the clutter that I’ve created along the way becomes overwhelming, I’m tempted to run away. With a world so large, why not find another niche within it? It’s like watching “Hoarders” and wondering why the people don’t just throw everything away and start over. Wouldn’t it just be easier? The truth, though, is that it’s just not that simple. Without understanding its deeper meaning, the clutter will inevitably return.
Moreover, while a plane ticket for escape may be within my budget, it’s the airlines’ added charge for my baggage that would prove too much.
