A Life of Illusion (Joe Walsh, 1981)

WARNING: This post contains a graphic image of dog crap. Viewer discretion is advised. (There, you've been warned.)

Any similarities to actual events and persons in my family are not coincidental. This story took place on Thursday, June 18, 2009.

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“Appearances often are deceiving.” ~ Aesop

As we know, looks can be deceiving. Examples of this old adage are many: Just look at Susan Boyle of Britain's Got Talent fame, or the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Eliot Spitzer? Tiger Woods? Who woulda thunk it? Biscuits and sausage gravy — disgustingly good. Also, mermaids, marigolds, and Bernie Madoff — an additional deceptive looking few.

One week ago today, my house could have been added to this list.

Having just completed a four mile run — surprisingly, without having a heart attack, or worse, urinating on myself — I emerged from a break in the tree line behind my house. It was a hot and humid night, one of the first of an unusually cold and rainy June. With perspiration and darkness upon me, exhausted, I staggered home.

Wiping sweat from my eyes, I was struck by the idyllic picture before me. My house looked like something right out of a Thomas Kinkade painting: bright, overused lighting, illuminated every window; the glow providing an almost dreamlike quality, a beacon of earthly comforts. I was reminded of how lucky I was and — dammit — how we really needed to do a better job of conserving energy.

The Foo Fighters kicked in on my iPod Nano with a cover of Joe Walsh's "A Life of Illusion" — I thought nothing of it at the time, although later it would prove ironic.

As I drew nearer to our patio, the picture of life inside the house came into better focus. I could see my mother-in-law through the kitchen window. She was over the sink, joyfully scrubbing what I could only assume was a dish. God bless her and her dishpan hands.

Through the sliding glass doors I could see my 7 and 3-year-old daughters sitting at the kitchen table, cheerfully eating what was likely a bowl of ice cream — probably vanilla with Hershey's chocolate syrup. God bless their sweet little hearts.

Lastly, I could see my beautiful wife through the family room windows, merrily walking toward the kitchen. My guess, to help her Mom, or join in the children’s ice cream festivities. I still can't believe she married me. Lord, give her strength.

I smiled, reflecting on the coziness of it all — and how easy it would be to sneak up to the kitchen window and scare the living hell out of my mother-in-law. I thought better of it, Thomas Kinkade would have nothing of it — and, scaring her to death was a distinct possibility.

I was captured by my home's apparent serenity and warmth. I imagined it's how John Walton felt coming home after a long day at the family lumber mill, or perhaps coming in from the outhouse, on a hot summer night on Walton's Mountain.

As I opened the sliding glass door, I slipped off my headphones. The Foo Fighters still audible, but distant, I stepped into the kitchen. I was greeted by cool air — and the bickering of my two youngest. Jessie and Lucy shared a kitchen chair and a leftover Portillo’s strawberry shake, and by the sound of it, were not doing a very good job of it.

With the picture of warmth and serenity already fading, I announced my entrance. “Hello!”

The girls focused only on their next spoonful were oblivious to my sweaty presence. They continued to box each other out, arguing over who’s turn was next.

Elizabeth and I arrived in the kitchen at about the same time. "You won't believe what just happened," she said.

Maude, my mother-in-law, was at the kitchen sink wiping a brown patent leather flat with a paper towel. "Yeah Kevin, you missed all the excitement!"

The girls interrupted their regularly scheduled argument to bring me the special announcement. "Buck pooped!" screamed Lucy.

Buck is our 16-year-old Peke-a-poo. This news in itself was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Dad, you should have seen it!" yelled Jessie.

"It was unbelievable," said Elizabeth. "Buck pooped in my shoe."

"Buck pooped in Mommy's shoe!" repeated Jessie.

"In your shoe?" I said.

Okay, that would explain both the smell and excitement.

Piling on the poopetrator (sorry, I couldn't help myself), my 13-year-old yelled from upstairs, "Buck also pee'd up here."

Damn, that’s gonna get in the padding.

"Yes, in my shoe,” said Elizabeth. “It was so gross."

Okay, I had heard of shit on a shingle, and witnessed first hand shit on a stick, but I ain't never seen shit in a shoe. This would definitely be a first for me, and for that matter, for Buck as well. He has crapped on carpet, rugs, hardwood floors, laundered clothes, the leather couch, a book, the front passenger seat of my car, and even once on Lauren's lap — but never in a shoe.

As the family canine excrement fixer, I inquired about the whereabouts of the poop as if it were a dead body. “So, where can I find it?”

“It was in the hallway, but I cleaned it up already,” said Elizabeth. “I took a picture for you.” Wow, what a woman — the picture an unexpected bonus.

The timing of my run couldn't have been any better. A grainy picture of a rather large crap lying partially on top of Elizabeth's shoe, replaced the faded image that was my idyllic home. With this new picture burned into my mind and a smile on my face, I headed upstairs to shower and clean me some urine. Life was good.

For six days a lone brown patent leather flat sat on the dryer in the laundry room, stuffed with a generous number of “refreshing scented” fabric softener sheets. Next to it, a half-empty container of odor eliminating Febreze. Today, one would never suspect that this shoe was once shat upon.

Appearances are often deceiving. You just never know . . .

And it comes with no warning
Nature loves her little surprises
Continual crisis
~ Joe Walsh, A Life of Illusion

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