I've waited months for this day. It's the Big Party.
The Big Party defines this weekend soiree of friends who own the same
kind of motor home (ours is a Navion, named Otto). We will tour each
other's motor home (sort of like a parade of homes), then settle into
a fish fry and bluegrass jamboree at Grayton Beach State in Florida's northeastern panhandle.
I'm so excited. So we batten down Otto with the dogs inside and hop
into the car. But wait. We need our wallets.
I climb back into Otto and WHAM! The smell! The mess! Fresh plops of
doggie diarrhea line up on the carpet. And they're bloody. And they're
coming from Joshua, our 7-year-old Standard Poodle (see the pic). Poor
Thank God for Nature's Miracle. I scoop, dab and scrub up the poop
(sorry), then run out to let Allen know the party is off and we're on
call, watching and waiting for Joshua to get better or worse (so you
aren't left hanging to the end of the story, I'll tell you now, he got
better without medical intervention.)
OK. I'm sad. We won't get to party today. I'm disappointed. And I'm
feeling sorry for myself. Not just because we miss the party, but now
we have to houseclean, too.
We run to Wal-Mart to buy a carpet shampooer and the store is jammed
with people. Where'd they all come from? Accidently, I ram my buggy
into Allen's right heel, then the lady behind me rams her buggy into
my right heel. I close my eyes. Woe is me.
OK. Emotions are high on a day we were to party. On Valentine's Day.
We have a sick doggie, our heels hurt, we have a dirty carpet and now
we have to pay $40 for what is probably a cheap carpet cleaner.
That's when I see real tragedy.
A woman, probably 10 years my senior, has fallen down on her face. In
Wal-Mart. There's a pool of blood under her nose. Her glasses are
sitting in the blood. A crowd is gathering. Managers are running
toward her. 911 is called. We keep on walking, to avoid gawking.
Outside is a fire truck and an ambulance.
We turn the corner on our selfish emotions and head home, a little
ashamed, but wiser.