Momma Needs A New Pair of Shoes

It was bound to happen eventually. Statistically speaking, I'm a little surprised it took this long. But, yesterday was the day and luckily the conditions were such that it did not completely ruin our day. Imagine if we had been at a chateau or in Paris?! But thank God, we were just 10 minutes from home, at Bo's soccer practice in Ile'Bouchard. This will be the place to go down in infamy as the place in France where I finally stepped in dog poop.

As if I needed any incentive to further dislike most dogs (and consequently, most dog owners*), the French have added to my disdain by having a general disregard for cleaning up after their pets. Whether relief is found in the street, sidewalk, park, driveway - truly the location doesn't appear to make a difference- the remains are left right where the four legged beasts intend. Every time we have gone anywhere (to visit castles even), the announcement is proclaimed at least once, from at least one of us, "watch out for the dog poop!" It is altogether rather remarkable and rather disgusting.

Aside from the dog poop, I find France to be a very clean country. One doesn't see much in the way of litter or trash strewn about. But honestly, I think I might prefer the occasional beer can on the side of the road to the bombs we continue to encounter. Like the one from yesterday, for example:

Bohdan's field for soccer practice abuts a cow pasture. Needless to say, when the wind blows either it is a God-sent breath of fresh air, or a deluge of what was already a rather overpowering odor. As I stood on the sidelines, against the fence with all the other parents, I continuously had to adjust my bearings like a schooner to stay in the right path of the wind and avoid the odoriferous onslaughts.

This perhaps helps to explain the disregard I had for the momentary changes of the bouquet in the air. When I finally determined dog poo was indeed intermingled with the air des vaches, I assumed my "super power" olfactory sense (as David calls it) was coming into play and shrugged it off as an addition to the unpleasantries of Bo's soccer location.

Eventually, I looked down only to discover to my absolute horror that I had been parading around like a show pony in a pile of puppy poo for the past half hour. The French have it on the Americans in moments like this as they have two very appropriate utterances at their disposal, while we have only the one and without the cool accent.
"Merde!" or "Sheet!" (which does not refer to something you place on a bed. Unless you're incontinent.)

My sentiments exactly.

In my most casual, decorum-maintaining posture I walked / shuffled back to the car, attempting to remove as much of the offensive matter as possible along the way, while no doubt looking like a sailor on his last night of leave. Once to the car, I made ready use of the grassy lot, removed my shoes, and, screened by the open door of the car, made haste to wipe my shoes off as completely as the lack of soap and water would allow.

Oh, and of course I wasn't exactly wearing rubber hip-waders. Cute strappy little black sandals with a kitten heal. And, because I didn't just step in it, but danced around in it, there was even some on my actual foot. I swear, I could have screeched or wretched right there on the spot if it weren't for the fear of dying from embarrassment being stronger than the horror of it all. Placing my shoes as far out of my reach and under the car as possible, I remained smells-safe in the car for the duration of Bo's practice.

David and Vivi returned from their walk and I filled them in on the hazardous time I'd just spent. After getting a good chuckle out of my predicament, David went to fetch Bo's water for Vivi and himself.

"Well, watch out for the dog poop," I scoffed, wondering how many more times my mouth will utter those words this year. A few minutes later David returned, thirst quenched. He sat next to me in the car as we took in the conclusion of Bo's practice.

"I'm sorry," I confessed. "I tried to clean off my shoes as best I could. I even shoved them under the car, but I can still smell the poop. It is so disgusting. We'll have to keep the windows down on the way home." David nodded and laughed a little in amazement once again at my "super power sense of smell." But then he went all aghast,

"Wait a minute!" He jumped out of the car and proceeded to do his own chicken impression while muttering, "I can't believe it!" Yes indeed, folks. The same bomb took out one of my husband's sneakers, too.

When it was time to retrieve the sweaty players, of course the rendezvous point was right near the scene of the crime. I hovered in the back of the pack, ignoring the fact that there were important announcements en francais that should have taken every ounce of my energy to comprehend, completely distracted with watching the entire gaggle of parents marching around in the very same poop. What was I to do? I couldn't exactly interrupt the coach with a bold shout of "Merde de chien! Merde de chien!" That certainly didn't seem like the correct course of action. So I just stood there, paralyzed by fear, disgust, and the irony of it all.

It's been a full day since this took place. David's sneakers lie discarded next to my sandals outside the house. We're praying for rain. Because really, who wants to get up close and personal with that? Maybe I just found my excuse for buying a darling pair of new French shoes.

*Certainly I don't mean my parents (although I do dislike their dogs), or Crystal (I actually can't stand Shiva), or Beverly (perhaps the first dogs I've ever liked?!), or any other of my friends who would be dog-owners. I'm of course referring to the complete strangers who don't train, leash or love their dogs properly.