“Who’s going to pick that up?” raged a woman, pointing to the deposit left by a German Shepherd guide dog on the New York City sidewalk.
“Lady,” the man with the guide dog whimpered, “what do you want me to do? I can’t see it.”
The woman let out a humph and stomped away.
I stood there, feeling sorry for the guy. After all, I could relate to being reprimanded by a stranger. I’ve been yelled at more times than I can recall. As I walked my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Buddy James, my head was flooded with incidents.
There was the time Buddy and I were enjoying a stroll and my iPhone rang. It was a client. Less than a second after I answered the call, a middle-aged man came charging down the street at me with sweat flying off his brow, “Hey lady, clean up your dog’s crap!” The man’s arms flailed about as he gestured toward a spot on the sidewalk and yelled, “GET OFF YOUR PHONE.”
I said to my client, “Sorry, gotta go, ran into a crazy.” She was a fellow New Yorker and dog owner so she understood my shorthand—no questions asked.
“What happened to, ‘Excuse me, Miss?’” I said.
The guy yelled even louder. And that’s when I lost it.
I jutted my face into his, nose-tip to nose-tip. “You effin’ psycho!” I screamed.
He seemed frightened and backed away. As he scurried off I heard him mumbling, “People always on their goddamn cell phones.”
I was surprised by my loss of composure. I yell once or twice a year. Imagine my surprise when two workmen across the street burst into applause. They’d obviously witnessed the exchange. They grinned at me with approval. As they clapped the men shouted, “effin’ psycho, effin’ psycho.” A lady in curlers leaned out of her apartment window and laughed, “Yup, he had that coming!”
I took in the approval as I retraced my steps and found the sidewalk evidence of my alleged crime. Upon inspection, it was clear that Buddy had not left the mess on the concrete. A mother can discern these things.
If Buddy goes against a tree, nature preservationists bark at me. My own code of ethics guides me to make sure Buddy doesn’t go too close to a parked car or bike. Other dog owners let their little darlings lift legs onto flowerbeds. I couldn’t live with myself if I let Buddy do that. If Bud lets loose on curbside garbage bags, garbage collectors chew me out. The only socially acceptable options left for us metropolitans are fire hydrants and the rare, bare spots of patches of unoccupied street.
During another stroll, Buddy stopped to tinkle at an empty bus stop on Fifth Avenue. With forehead and neck veins a-popping, a man with a van drove right up next to us and yelled in my ear, “That’s nasty!” Not knowing how to respond I said, “I’m sure when you go, it’s nasty too.”
But why should I have to defend myself? I’m more courteous than most folks. I walk with a bottle of water to splash any untidy spot left by Bud. I should be commended on my environmental conscientiousness—I use only biodegradable bags for my proper public pooper scooping. I carry my empty soda bottles outside to leave for the foragers who collect on their five-cent refund. I put them in an easy-to-carry bag with handles (recycled from my store purchases) and place them beside a corner trashcan. As I walk away I imagine the look of happy surprise when a rummager spots the present.
Unlike oblivious owners, I never let my Bud pull me all willy-nilly, to zigzag down the street. I religiously follow Manhattan’s unspoken rules on the sidewalk by sticking to the right side so as not to clog up pedestrian traffic.
I was mulling all this over and thinking about the woman giving the blind guy a hard time. And then, after Buddy did his business and we were about to head home, a thought stopped me. Why should I be proud of my outburst at the guy who complained about my cell phone? Or my snarky response to the guy in the van?
For nothing but a moment’s satisfaction I sunk to Mr. Psycho’s level of incivility. In what way were my responses better than the woman who hadn’t taken the time to notice the blind man’s condition or to feel compassion? What would the Dalai Lama do if somebody yelled at him? Chances are he wouldn’t hurl bottom-barrel words or consider punching anybody—no matter what the offense. I may have shown the don’t-back-down-to-anybody New Yorker in me, but what about equipoise? What about solicitude? What about not adding to the anger in the atmosphere?
An old and annoying spiritual parable came to me, “Do a good deed and don’t be found out.”
I circled back to where I’d seen the blind man and his guide dog. When nobody was watching, I leaned down with a biodegradable baggie and picked up the German Shepherd guide dog’s deposit and put it in the trash. That may not be earth-shattering news, but I felt redeemed—as if I’d done my share to bring some peace into the world.
