Ever have one of those days when the things you dread the most turn out to be the things that give you the greatest joy? I’m having one of those today. Don’t get me wrong, the day didn’t start out too bad, it just didn’t start out too good. My wife, the lovely and understanding Jess let me sleep in a few minutes, braving the feeding of the beasts all by herself. Anyway, I got up, and while I was getting ready for school, she asked me to go to the bank and grocery after class.

Man, I hate going to the bank. I hate going to the grocery even more than I hate going to the bank, and I hate that even more when we’re on a diet, which we currently are (more or less). But, since the industrious and selfless Jess is working 12 hour days, I told her I’d do it, and said it with a smile (fake) on my face.

Then, I take the dogs out one last time. I try to keep them out extra long, because I was going to be at school most of the day and didn’t want to come home to any accidents. Since it was 16 degrees outside, it was a little difficult forcing myself to stay outside long enough to make sure they got all their business done (if I go back inside without them, they just stand at the door like, “What the hell dad?). To kill time and give myself something to do, I decided that I’d clean up the dog poo in the yard. Since we’ve got 5 dogs, this is a never-ending task. Of course, Ralph, our chief stray, refuses to poop in the yard. In fact, he pretty much refuses to enter the yard at all. He seems to think that a fenced yard is for house dogs, not real dogs like him, and so, is beneath his dignity* (of course, he’s not above coming inside and spending the day sleeping on our bed when it’s cold or raining. He’s got a kind of selective dignity). Still, the other 4 keep us busy (and we have to keep on it because one of them really loves a good poopcicle. Disgusting but true. If you ever come to our house, you want to be real careful about which dog you let lick your face).

I get the poop scoop and rake and start to work, only to find out that it’s all frozen solid to the ground. I’d need a jackhammer to work that stuff loose, so I decide the heck with it. I get all the dogs stowed in their respective spots, and head off to school. First up, Geology. Let me just say, I hate science. I hate all things sciencey. Frankly, I find science depressing and scary. My first semester of school, I had to take Environmental Science. It seemed to pretty much be a class all about, “This is how the planet works. And this is how we’re wrecking it.” Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t some kind of left-wing, ultra-liberal panic-mongering thing, it really just seemed to be pretty much common sense. I mean really, if the chicken poo from these industrial farms is so toxic with chemicals and hormones and what-have-you that the farmers can’t use it for fertilizer, then it seems like a bad idea to put it in storage facilities along the major waterways (and, if it’s not so toxic, then why don’t they use it for fertilizer? Who in their right mind would want to keep it?)

Anyway, if Environmental Science was all about how we’re killing the planet, Geology seems to be the flip side of the coin, i.e. it’s all about the many, many ways in which the planet is trying to kill us. I suppose it’s all a matter of how you look at it really. If you take the short view, then we’re definitely winning. If you take the long view however, the planet is going to win. The depressing part is that win, lose, or draw, we all end up dead. So I find science kind of a bummer. However, I like the instructor. I’d guess he’s in his mid 70’s, and very funny. His mannerisms and way of talking kind of remind me of David Letterman, so he’s pretty entertaining. I guess it could be worse.

In the afternoon, I have Victorian Literature (and I can just hear you all groaning with jealousy). I like the subject well enough, but today I seemed to get myself branded the classes’ token sexist, just because I suggested that a book (Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell) might have been written the way it was, because it was written by a woman. You see, I think the professor is scared to death of what I’m going to say, so every time I start to say anything, she tends to cut me off. So she cut me off before I could present my very cogent, insightful, and not-derogatory-in-any-way explanation for my thoughts. Thus, all I got to say was, “It was written that way because it was written by a woman.” Naturally, the class being Victorian Literature, it is about 75% female (’cause the chicks dig that stuff. hahaha). You can imagine how my truncated remark went over. I was lucky to escape with my life.

It was after school that my day finally took an upturn. I didn’t have to wait in line at the bank, which was nice and, in my experience, unprecedented. When I got to the grocery, I walked inside, got a cart, and promptly forgot what the heck I was supposed to get. I could remember several other things that we could use, such as yoghurt for the dogs (cuts down on gas. Seriously), but not what we needed. However, as I was headed back to the dairy aisle, I walked past the cleaners and remembered what I was supposed to get. Fabric softener! Then, there was no line at the checkout, another pleasant surprise.

When I got home, things continued to improve. I managed to get inside the house without losing any of the dogs (there’s no fence at the back of the house, and our dogs are all far too stupid to be allowed to roam loose. If left free outdoors, they would have the life expectancy of a mayfly – except for Ralph of course. His disdain for the other dogs is not unwarranted). I got up the stairs without tripping over any of them, got the 3 basement dogs past Elsie (the Ripper), a 13-year-old English Springer Spaniel, who crouches at the top of the stairs like a leopard waiting to pounce on the first one through the door (she has a passionate and psychotic hatred of all things 4-legged, and affects a mere hostile indifference to all other living beings except Jess. Jess is her God.).

I got them outside, and decided to give the poo-picking-up another try. It had turned out to be a perfect day for the task. Cold enough to keep it intact and rollable, but warm enough that it wasn’t stuck to the ground like cement. The dogs were all being good, and the 2 youngest, Dude, a 7-month old Black Lab, and Mattie, a 1-year-old Beagle were running, wrestling, and wearing themselves out, which boded well for a peaceful evening.

So all-in-all, it’s been a pretty good day, and the high spots were all the things that I had spent the day, if not dreading, at least not looking forward to at all. Plus, I came up with this post which, regardless of how much or how little you enjoyed reading, I have thoroughly enjoyed writing. Writing it has also given me something to do that was so much more fun than studying for tomorrow’s Spanish test, which is really what I should be doing.

Anyway, to finish this off, let me leave you with this thought. Every day and every life has its ups and downs. It’s how you deal with the poo, even when it’s not yours (or maybe especially when it’s not yours but you still have to deal with it) that makes or breaks your day. Call it the Tao of Poo.**

Have a lovely day. Or evening. Or whatever.

*Actually, now that I think of it, I don’t know where he poops. He’s lived here on the compound for 8 or 9 years, and I’ve never seen him go, or seen any evidence that he does. All I can figure is either he goes way back to the woods to do his business, or he’s got a freakishly highly-evolved and efficient digestive system. Probably the former, but even that’s kind of weird, ya know?

**This is why I’m not a Philosophy major.