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I walked in to my apartment, and immediately stepped in poop.
“Mojo!” I cried out, walking on my heels to the kitchen. If Daddy saw the land mines that this dog left, he’d freak. How could one dog miss ten pee pads? It was almost like he’d strategically placed the poop so that we’d step in it. It was in every doorway, every walk way, right in front of the couch. What was up with this dog and his weird pooping habits?
After spending fifteen minutes cleaning up the gross piles, and washing the bottom of my shoes with bleach, I put Mojo on a leash and carried him outside. Yes, carried. I wasn’t sure why I insisted on using leashes. The dog obviously preferred for someone else to do the walking.
“There’s more poop in there?” I asked as the dog squatted next to a tree. “What have you been eating?”
As if fed up with my questions, Mojo moved to the other side of the tree, away from me.
“I can still see you,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re going to have to learn how to hold it until we get home like every other dog.”
Two older ladies in dresses passed by me. They stopped and looked at me with confusion.
“I’m talking to the dog,” I said. “He pooped in the house.”
They didn’t respond. Only nodded, looked at me as if I was insane, and kept walking.
I frowned and held up the leash. I didn’t need these strangers’ approval, but I didn’t want them to think that there was a psycho in the neighborhood either.
“Look, I have a leash. The dogs on the other side of the tree. He doesn’t like me to watch.”
The women grabbed at each other’s hand and sped up. I didn’t know old ladies could move so fast.
I sighed miserably.
“Don’t break a hip,” I muttered.
Mojo kicked some dirt over his poop and reemerged.
“Now you show up. Where were you when the old ladies thought I was talking to myself, huh? You couldn’t bark or howl or fart or something?”
The dog looked at its pile of poop, then looked at me. An unmistakable sign for, pick up the poop and carry me home.
I’d never seen a more stubborn or sassy dog in all my life. I doubted I ever would.
I did as I was silently told, picked up the poop, and carried Mojo home. By the time I arrived, Daddy had already sat down on the couch.
“Is that you, honey?” he asked, cracking open his after-work beer. He allowed himself one per night. Never more. There had been a brief time after Mom died where he allowed himself way more than one. We didn’t talk about that dark time. It was too painful.
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Where’s the dog?”
“Prince Mojo is right here.”
I plopped the dog in Dad’s lap and sat next to them on the couch.
Daddy scratched the dog behind the ears, picked him up under his armpits, and examined him.
“He is kind of cute, I guess,” he said. Mojo squirmed, and Daddy lowered him back on to his lap, scratching his ears some more. Warmth filled me. I would have thought that Daddy would still be angry after yesterday. I was glad he wasn’t. He was in a strangely good mood, actually. Not that he was always miserable, but today he seemed to have a little extra pep.
“How many piles of poop did you pick up today?” he asked.
I gasped. “Too many.”
Daddy nodded. “Well, if Mojo is going to stay, he’s going to have to be trained. Crate trained and paper trained.”
I groaned. Crate training was one thing, but paper training could take weeks. Especially since Daddy and I were gone for half the day.
“Can’t we just get a rumba?” I asked. “It could clean up the poop while we’re gone.”
“You want to vacuum up dog crap? Are you crazy?”
“I prefer the term creative.”
He laughed and shook his head. I laughed, too.
I missed my Mom, but I’d always been a Daddy’s girl. Some said that I had him wrapped around my little finger, but I thought it was the other way around. From his warm, rich brown eyes to his bear hugs and his rumbling laugh, I loved everything about my father. We fought, of course. I was a teenager, after all, and prone to emotional outbursts, but, in the end, I felt safe when I was with him and, since Mom died, he was the last piece of her that I had to hold on to.
“Well, tonight we’ll start on the paper training.”
“And leash training?” I asked.
“Leash training?”
“He kind of doesn’t want to walk on a leash.”
Daddy looked incredulous. A dribble of beer fizzled in his beard.
“You’re kidding me?”
I shook my head.
“I wish I was.”
“Get me the leash. I’ll have to see this for myself.”
I stood, grabbed the leash from the coat hook by the door, and handed it to Daddy.
He gently attached it to the dog’s collar and stood up.
“All right, Mojo,” Daddy said, his southern drawl thicker now that he’d had a drink. “Let’s go.”
And, like the treasonous pup that he was, Mojo walked on that leash like a trained show dog. The two of them walked and jogged around the apartment like they’d been doing it their whole lives.
It was official. My dog was a traitor.
“I swear, he doesn’t walk for me!” I cried.
Daddy waved the comment away. “Aw. That’s all right. You’ll just have to show Mojo who’s boss. Here.” He handed me the leash, and I jumped up to take it.
“All right. Once around the kitchen and back now.”
I let out a breath and looked at the dog, who was now avoiding my eye.
“Okay, Mojo. Let’s go.”
I wasn’t surprised to see the dog sit on his backside, lay down, and close his eyes.
Daddy laughed until he cried. I saw nothing funny about it. Nothing at all.