The condom that wouldn’t die, dog farts, and other timely notes on modern urban life with Canus familaris wolf clones

Each day, I harness up my husky girl (not the human one), attach her lead, make sure I have doggie poop disposal bags in my pocket, as well as a canister of sprayable 10% Oleocapsicum with me before heading out the door at around 9AM or so.

We live on a small offshoot of a major east-to-west intraurban artery located about 6 blocks from a very nice local patch of greenery called Cooledge Park. Much to my regret, this means that the only way to get to the park is to use the sidewalk that runs along this artery…which means walking in discomforting proximity to the daily lead-footed traffic that rushes by at speeds typically about 10 or more mph over the posted speed limit (35). Since there’s a grammar school along the route, that posted speed is theoretically lowered to 25 mph when kids are present, but naturally all that ’25 mph’ sign seems to do is act like a checkered flag to all the dim-bulb, dip-s*it drivers who make a walk on this street a minor trip through auto-noise hell.

Understandably, I am a firm believer in short, stout leads for huskies, having had many decades of experience with the breed. With cars & vehicles as big as the occasional semi-truck & trailer whizzing by, separated from the sidewalk by not more than a scant few feet, the daily saunter up this avenue to the park that we take is somewhat less than bucolic. [In fact, if I weren’t a former turn-marshal at SCCA (Sports Car Club of America) club racing (Laguna Seca & Sears Point), it would be totally unnerving.] Walking alongside such a city-regulated urban racetrack with one’s back to the onrushing traffic can be rather unsettling at best.

Imagining I am back at the Laguna Seca track incrementally helps me deal with this daily ordeal, although it doesn’t much help me regain any vestige of pastoral peacefulness & serenity! And it doesn’t take race-track experience to know that that unmuffled, hopped-up, obnoxious little 2010 Honda Civic (think: small cars that make big nasty noises, pretending they’re race cars) that just whizzed by is definitely not in the same class as a 1989 McLaren MP4/4 thoroughbred.

At any rate, there is one stoplight we must traverse, en route, and while we’re halted to await the signal change in our favor, I usually look about somewhat aimlessly for lack of anything else better to do. It was halted at this light about 2 months ago that I spotted what was VERY obviously a well-used condom lying on the edge of the sidewalk at this juncture (alas! It wasn’t even on Coitus Street and Orgasm Avenue). Forlornly deflated, and lying there like some repulsively dead old rubber balloon, the tan Latex of this penile sheath glaringly proclaimed to the entire world exactly what it was. And this is, by the way, directly across from the grammar school mentioned earlier.

Standing at my side, Her Royal Huskiness, Princess Nala, had strained at the lead, wanting very, very much to get a close-up sniff of this loathsome bit of human refuse, doubtless keen for a complete chemical analysis of the flaccid object by her acutely calibrated olfactory facilities. So much so, that I had had to forcefully hold her off a slight distance, which is not all that easy, given that huskies are capable of sometimes astounding feats of pulling (having been bred specifically for this sort of thing). Despite her average size (65 pounds), I can imagine that the inertial force she’s capable of mustering forth on sudden notice would likely astound even an august physics wonk like Sir Isaac himself (were he not peacefully decomposing, partially digested apple and all, across the pond in Westminster Abbey).

The light takes its time to change at this corner, providing more than a few moments of further reflection on all things (condomy or not). Among them, I had found myself wondering absently about the venue where this trophy’s user had deployed it, what pimply pre-teen had lost her virginity on it, for instance, or whether the dreadlocked delinquent who had had his way with her already had STDs on the ‘safe’ side of its hygienic barrier (his) that he wasn’t yet aware of when the deed went down? I had also wondered absently about how long it would take before some squeamish elementary school mom spotted it, while similarly stopped at this light, and dispose of it, trying vainly to shield her precious (and probably also sexually precocious) little ankle-biter from the sight (“Mommie, what’s THAT?”). Heavens!

Finally, I recall having wondered as to how exactly did that little spent Latex sack end up here, on the sidewalk at the stoplight? Almost certainly, its user had not had sex right there on the concrete. Had he stuffed it, dripping with gizm, into his pocket and tossed it out at the corner when the fluids seeping out into his picket suddenly reminded him that he was now off Onan’s list (and on that of Saint Theresa of the Immaculate Ejaculation)?

Either way, I had every confidence that quite soon this objectionable piece of post-coital effluvia would quickly disappear and that it would thence no longer balefully glare up at us from the dust when we passed by.

As it turned out, this proved most decidedly NOT to be the case, as daily encounters with it continued to prove during the following weeks. Each day as we stopped at this light, there it was, seemingly almost exactly where it had been originally. Was this an indication that a lot more moms are far less squeamish than I had calculated they would be? Was it suggestive of the fact that ‘dead’ condoms are now casually flung about after use without anyone getting particularly worked up about it? Was it made from little understood and seldom encountered Tan Latex Kryptonite (the scourge of Superman’s rare enough lustful urges whenever he ran into Lois Lane)? Was it made of something even more impervious to the otherwise dependably degrading effects of UV than anything else known to man? As our encounters with this condom continued over the course of several more weeks, I found myself mightily puzzled by the whole affair.

Today, as Nala and I were stopped at this light, I glanced down and sure enough, the wayward condom was still there, although by this time the thin Latex sheath part of it had somehow disappeared, leaving only the reinforced, rolled rim part of the assembly. Astounding! The condom that wouldn’t die! And who knows, it may well last until well into fall (summer Solstice is a few weeks hence) or even later. A lasting testament to the loss of little Betty Joe Biolosky’s (or someone like her) virginal maidenhead…

On today’s excursion (read: pooping, sniffing & squirting expedition with Princess Nala), we hadn’t gone more than three additional blocks when I spotted what at first glance appeared to be an unused pink tomato ketchup packet (like those flung by the handful into your Jack-Off-In-the-Box burger bag by the burger flipper who screeches unintelligibly into the ordering PA system when asking for your order). Except that it wasn’t. A closer inspection (after Nala was drawn odoriferously to it) revealed that it was…yup, you guessed it!...another condom. Except that this one was still unused in its sealed pink foil packet. I was bemused to note that adjoining the condom packet was a similarly sized packet (also pink foiled) that was labeled ‘lubricant’.

Wow! Progress in the contraception R&D department. Now, when you’re suddenly tired of ordinary vaginal sex, you can go for that little pink winkie that lies just above it on the female anatomy without worrying about the fact that you forgot to grab a tube of K-Y in your haste to get to your hot date. Or (this being Sacramento, the new capitol of LBGTQ pride), perhaps it slipped out of the pocket of Fred O. on his way to a date with Roger G. (now there’s an appropriate pun, eh?). One never knows, these days.

That said, I managed to catch Nala before she made a lunge for this fascinating new discovery and we continued on our way to the happy pooping grounds for a glorious round of her favorite game (‘Sniff & Squirt’).

Actually, dogs have such a great philosophy. By their reckoning, if you can’t hump something and you can’t eat it, piss on it! We should all aspire to that vastly enlightened outlook on life’s recurrent frustrations, I think. Another reason why, as some puerile acquaintances of mine might put it, ‘Dogs Boss!’ Nala, for her part and unable to mouth the pink foil packets, did just that, having been denied the supreme husky joy of tasting whatever that packeted stuff was, and squatted on it, doubtless marking it off with her scent as the conquered territory of her local domain for all other doggie visitors on this route to heed and take note of.

Finally, after a half hour or so of slowly tracking all the yummy scents in the park (which includes spoor left by other dogs, squirrels, homeless people without toilets to avail, and BBQ parties who can’t seem to understand that trash barrels are for trash disposal), we neared the park’s upper end and were about to cross over onto the continuation of the street that bends south. At that spot, a natural gas pipeline valving junction juts up out of the ground, surfacing near some bushes. Apparently some blithe soul seems to have decided that, due to the park people not caring to install a trash barrel there, it was a good spot to discard all those blue doggy poop bags that were now full and seeking a repository.

A small pile of them had already accumulated. Was this a non-verbal statement to the Sacramento Parks & Recreation Department that they were one disposal barrel short of a full complement? Perhaps, perhaps not, but one of these days I may well go down to the local Home Depot store and purchase a disposal barrel and place it there*. Consider it my good citizen deed of the day. Another public-spirited citizen taking personal action to correct an egregious oversight by city planners. Then we’ll see how long it takes before the barrel is full to overflowing with all that Nitrogen enriched effluent until the city is moved (another appropriate pun, I think) enough to make that spot part of their regular disposal barrel logistics plan. Progress sometimes takes such a radically proactive form, I am told, when the collective bowels of civic consciousness become constipated…

From there, the last part of our AM daily walk usually follows a parallel street on the other side of the park that is lined with nice little South Land Park Hills homes. Most of these houses are quite picturesque, appearing well taken care of and landscaped with some care. Here and there among them are a few dwellings where the residents are obviously retired or elderly, and one of them has a garage that is routinely open; the home’s occupants (Southeast Asian, judging from their conversation) spend lots of time in that garage. The garage has a hammock in it that usually has one of more people swinging languidly as they while away the idle hours of the day. When I pass by, I always try valiantly to resist the urge to peer into it, since that strikes me as a somewhat blatant violation of their privacy.

Nala, of course, has other ideas. She is always drawn to the sound of the voices jabbering away in Vietnamese or Laotian dialect (I’m not sure which), and predictably pulls toward the open door. Since I’ve long since gotten used to this trick, I always try to keep a firm hand on her lead and encourage her to continue down the block with me. Good luck with that!

Instead of acknowledging my status as Alpha Leader, she obstinately decides to make a deposit on their lawn, usually right in front of them. I’m not entirely sure what this signifies (if anything), but I secretly suspect Nala is making some sort of husky statement by squatting precisely here each day. Of course, you can’t drag a dog that is already evacuating its bowels away from any spot, since that not only can get a bit messy, it also seems a bit rude and disrespectful to the pup in reference. The impasse that results finds me standing there, a bit flummoxed and non-plussed as Nala finishes up her business in a leisurely (royal?) manner. Then it’s time for me to get into the act, as I draw out my poop bag and proceed to clean up after her…directly under the eyes of the garage’s occupants, who are meanwhile grinning and discussing this drama among themselves in phrases that are totally unintelligible to my honkey ears. I can only imagine what is being said.

And of course, since the pup has been farting grievously all morning long (tummy upset), her ‘egresa’ (there’s that fancy scientific word for ‘sh*t’ again) is of the nearly liquid, loose and runny type that is virtually impossible to scoop up! Make my day.

Finally, after what must appear to the viewing SEA spectator gallery as a most amusing street theatre act by (to them) an unknown honkey, I summon up what little dignity I have left and briskly continue to walk down the street with Her Royal Huskiness firmly in tow.

Nala, for her part, has been grinning that characteristically lupinish smile huskies are noted for all the while, as we retreat from our shame (mine, mostly).

Back home again, I sit down at my desk to whack-off (no, not THAT kind of ‘whack-off’) this blog installment on my peripatetic desktop. Nala, for her part, resumes that spot she claims as her own…usually under my desk and directly in front of my feet, so that my lower extremities soon end up like 8-hour old poured concrete (unable to move, pretty much). It doesn’t take long for the aroma of pup tummy trouble to start filling the air with the most noxious fumes since the 1984 Bophal Union Carbide Chemical Plant Accident, over in India.

We’re talking truly some of the worst mixes of methane and hydrogen ever to pollute the ostensibly breathable atmosphere, woof!

However, as an old pro when it comes to dealing with husky farts, I am well inured to odiferous insults to the nose like this. Two basic things one must acclimatize to when one has huskies are 1) hair all over the place, 365 days a year, and 2) truly noxious dog emissions of a gassy pungency rarely encountered in human experience. S’true.

At any rate and fortunately, rancid puppy farts are not the usual fare at my place. More often, when a doggy tummy is well acid-balanced and happy, these whiffs of hell’s doom are absent. Contrarywise, what is almost a regular element of life with huskies is a unique smell that is actually immensely pleasant, associated with their equally unique fur.

Huskies are noted among the dog breeds for several things. One of these is a tendency NOT to bark. That isn’t to say they can’t bark, since they can and will given the right stimulus. But 99% of the time they prefer to remain mute (unless ‘talking’ in that uniquely mellifluous husky manner sometimes known as ‘woo-wooing’). Huskies are also known to NOT have what is commonly referred to as ‘doggy odor’. Instead, with their self-cleaning, double-layered coat, they remain mostly smell-less. The exception to this is what I call ‘belly fur scent’, which is actually a wonderfully doggie essence that most people surprisingly find quite attractive.

This pheromonally unique scent usually arises from a husky’s belly fur when they sprawl shamelessly on their backs (demanding a belly-rub). I’m serious here, folks. Husky bellies have a wonderfully evocative scent that most human noses find quite attractive. It’s a bit hard to describe with mere words. What you need to do to fully appreciate this is to have a husky of your own (or two or three) that is prone to lazing around on its back much of the time. Only when you have this experience, can you hope to take these words seriously when I say that husky belly fur smell is heavenly. [OK. I SAW you making those marginal notes to the effect that 'this guy is CRAZY!'] Makes you want to close your eyes and imagine you’re huddled in an Arctic tent with a couple of these big goofs clustered around you for body-heat retention. It’s sort of like ‘wet dog fur’, but infinitely more pleasant, I assure you!

Furthermore, it sure compensates greatly for those rare but doom-laden puffs of noxious digestive, gaseous effluent described a bit earlier in this narrative!

And so, Princess Nala resumes her under-the-desk Journalist’s Assistant duties and I return to my tippity-tappity stuff on the PC. All is right in our world once more, and life is bearable for another day thanks to the no-cost benefits of having a husky dog for a companion. Malamutes have similar qualities, of course, but there’s usually a lot more of them (size & bulk-wise) to deal with, since Mals are somewhat bigger than Siberians in terms of proportions and sheer largeness.

I guess I can close this wandering jeremiad by saying that Her Huskiness, Princess Nala, is a very, very erudite and well-read girl. She once partly consumed (read: ate) a book by none-other than Benjamin Franklin, titled ‘Fart Proudly’ (believe it, he did and that’s its title!) and ever since she has followed his exhortation with religious zeal, doggone it!

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* PS: I did just that today (20 Sep). If the Sacramento City Parks & Rec guys ever find out who did this, they're liable to come arrest me for 'Placing a non-regulation waste barrel in a city park'. In a city that has just made a name for itself, nationally, by banning plastic straws in restaurants, such things are perfectly 'normal'... Good grief! Vigilante public service...only in Californica (sic)!

PSS: Today (21 Sep) I traced my usual route through this park and the new waste barrel I so painstakingly purchased and placed there was gone! Obviously picked up and removed by the same idiot park maintenance people who seem to make a career out of otherwise totally ignoring the needs of park users! I suppose I should be grateful they didn't bring out the FBI DNA forensic guys to track me down, so they could penalise me for my pro-active civic pride! ARRRRGH. And so it goes...life in Suckatomato!