This is a tale of suspense and intrigue, exploring the depths of a moral quagmire worthy of a White House scandal. Naturally, it begins on a dark and stormy night, with the wind pitched at a scathing scream and the rain falling with primeval force. It was unmistakably a time for philosophy, for poetry, for faith.
It was, in short, time to walk the dog.
Clipping the leash onto Masha’s collar, I headed into the fateful downpour. At first, fortune seemed kind. We had scarcely gotten to the corner park when Masha stopped, focused, and accomplished our evening’s objective. Was it my imagination or did she smile contentedly, as though to say “I’ve done my part, you do yours.” No matter, I had only to clean up the mess and dispose of it before I could return to the indulgent pleasure of a warm house and dry clothes.
I reached into the pocket of my jacket. And then–disaster! My pulse froze, my knees buckled. There I stood with no plastic bag. What rash impulse had led me to leave home so sorrowfully undersupplied? What wrathful god had I defied?
I could only look helplessly at the unredeemable object of my civic duty. Distressing as it seemed, there was no alternative. (No, not that! How could you even think of such a thing?) I had to mark the spot and return home for a Baggie and a waterproof flashlight. Quickly, I located a small fallen branch and stuck it into the soggy earth next to the even soggier deposit.
We were back at the house in record time. I grabbed what I needed and returned to the park, only to discover one last unmerciful turn of events. The muddy branch I’d chosen as my signpost was invisible against the murky night. Rain coursing from my frozen face, I scanned the dim vista in search of my indiscernible stick and the accumulation that it marked.
Though there could be nothing more distinctly physical than the task at hand, I soon found myself in a metaphysical quandary. While I could not find Masha’s own output, I quickly realized that the park held no shortage of reasonable equivalents. Perhaps they’d been dropped by free-range canines, or perhaps they were abandoned by rogue dog owners. Whatever the source, the existential question slapped me hard across the face.
Could I discharge my urban obligation by cleaning up after someone else’s mutt? Did I have to remove the precise problem that Masha herself had produced, or was it sufficient simply to reduce the total nuisance level of the park? Surely no one would care about the identity of the dog, so long as I left some corner of the field more sanitary than I’d found it. Nobody was watching, so who would ever know?
It was with that stark rationalization that my ethical hard drive began to crash. Excuse followed excuse as I plunged into the abyss of moral relativism, ready to walk away from the righteous (if somewhat soiled) path.
If I could fulfill my duty by proxy, why bother doing it in the rain? Wouldn’t it be just as good to wait until morning, to clean up in the dry daylight? And having displaced both object and time, couldn’t I substitute locations as well? Why not just remove some errant dog’s memento from my own front yard? That would, after all, still make the world a cleaner place. And indeed, hadn’t I done just that very thing several times the previous week? Why, I had no reason at all to stand in that storm scouting for solid waste! Hey, I was already at least a half dozen scoops ahead of the game. I was entitled to forget about plastic bags whenever I chose, just to get even with all those thoughtless dog-dirt dodgers.
I was only moments from heading home empty-handed, a few scant seconds from embracing the evil, seductive logic–and then I was saved. My flashlight, as though guided by an unseen force, swept one last time across the terrain. What was that slight shadow, that small interruption of the beam? Why, it was the very limb I’d stuck into the ground. I strode (carefully) to Masha’s spot to complete my appointed work. I cleared the ground–as well as my conscience–and returned home to pooch and family, chastened by my brush with irresponsibility.
But what was it that delivered me from a life of crime? Did my communal ideals triumph over base inclination? Did providence intervene? Or was it merely fear–did I foresee myself as the fugitive prey of some hounding Inspector Javert, never to find peace? I only know that in that last bleak moment, torn between right and wrong, the grim visage of Kenneth Starr flashed before my eyes. And then I had no choice. (You never know when you’re being taped.)
