Proselia Spontenaium
She asked me to wash the dishes and I did. Before diving my hands into a swamp of dishes, warm water, and suds, I’d flipped the radio on with my elbow. The station played one of my favorite tunes by the Shirelles and after weaving into a comfortable rhythm of scouring, rinsing, and tucking the dishes into the dishwasher to dry, I was humming along.
The row of diminutive cactus over the kitchen sink were lined up perfectly within their terracotta pots. One had blooms of bright fuchsia. Over the sink and out the kitchen window I could see the thin distance of 8 feet that separated our home from our neighbor’s, the Grillich’s.
They owned a white German Shepard with a bad temper and occasionally it would shit against the fence and over to our side of the yard. Mom, fond of walking barefoot let me know that it was my job to discretely monitor the dog’s activities. In the late afternoon when the Grillich’s weren’t home, I’d walk the border of our homes and with a hand shovel or while wearing rubber gloves, chuck Spirit Fox’s shit over the fence and back into their yard. Sometimes I’d pretend that I was a basketball player doing layups with the wads of shit. Other times, I’d soft pitch it underhand and loft it gently over the fence. Othertimes I’d focus, wind up and aim for the dog. He never liked me anyway.
** to be continued **
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