Betsy Ross, My Dog

My first dog was named Betsy Ross Spatucci. Why such a name, you may ask? She was born in 1976, the Bicentennial year of our country, and I was swept up in the patriotism that was everywhere at the time. I wore a kiddie-sized tricornered hat many days in that year, and not only saluted any flag I came across, but also gave the full Pledge of Allegiance, embarrassing several members of my family. Yes, I had problems – even back then.

Betsy had the kind of sweet disposition mutts are known for, and she was great around kids, which was ideal for me because I was one of those throughout my childhood. She captured my imagination, and when I was a few years older I even wrote and recorded a love song, "Why?", for my beloved pet. An old cassette of the instrumental track survives, just waiting to be remixed. The lyrics - my ruminations on what she meant to my young life - are far too shameful to ever see print, but have brought my wife many a chuckle when recited over a glass of Merlot.

By all accounts, Betsy brought a peace and happiness to my childhood, eventually allowing me to sleep in my own bed throughout the night. My parents were quite pleased with the effect she had on me, though there was one particular bump in this dog-owning road early on.

The crux of this story is this: I did not know at the time that dogs pooped. No one told me and I wasn't smart enough to figure it out on my own. So the first night we had Betsy, when I was still trotting out of bed to my parents' room in the wee hours, I spotted a few piles of dark material on the floor. This was her poop.

Betsy must have paid a visit to my parents' room at some point after we'd all gone to sleep, because she'd left them two or three puppy piles scattered about the carpet. Curious, I picked one up. I recall it being cool to the touch and fairly solid. I don't remember any kind of smell associated with the poop, though that may be the rose-colored glasses effect. Poop typically smells. That I have learned.

Some children may have picked up a pile of feces, connected it to their own defecation, realized what it was and placed it back on the floor. Instead, I woke my mom and put it in her face. That was a bad decision. Unlike me, she knew exactly what it was, and actually began repeating a synonym for "poop" several times before pulling me into the bathroom, shaking my arm violently until the poop flew into the toilet bowl, and sanitizing my hand with scalding hot water while advising me never to touch anything that I even suspected to be poop.

I've always tried to follow this advice, and while I've faltered once or twice (oh, there have been times), each time I fall off the wagon I think back to the summer of '76, Betsy Ross Spatucci, and my blissful ignorance of canine bodily functions.