Vogelsang - All dogs go to Kevin: everything three dogs taught me (that i didnt learn in veterinary school)

The spirit of enlightenment first shone upon me in a pile of incandescent dog poop.

I had spent most of the afternoon angrily lecturing my Lhasa Apso Taffy for destroying my newly purchased sixty-four-pack of Crayolas. A bona fide wax junkie, Taffy was unable to resist the temptation and destroyed half the contents while I was at school learning whatever it is third graders learn. I came home to find paper shavings and crayon nubs strewn about my bedroom, and one satisfied-looking dog with green teeth.

I wanted those crayons, I said to her. I needed those crayons.

Taffy licked her stained lips, unimpressed. Bits of wax stuck in her beard like confetti.

By the time I finished picking wrapper remnants out of the carpet, Taffy was prancing back and forth in her interpretive I-have-to-potty dance. I leashed her up for a walk, grumbling as she merrily pulled me along. Halfway up the street, we ran into old Mr. Rillsworth, standing at the end of his driveway with his arms folded across his chest.

He peered down his long nose at me. Are you the child whose dog is relieving itself in my driveway? he asked in a sonorous voice.

No, I lied. I dont know what it was about the Rillsworth driveway, a simple concrete affair much like every other one along the street, but Taffy saw it as irresistible, a throne fit for a queen. I did my best to be a responsible child by picking up after her almost every time, but sometimes I just forgot.

Mr. Rillsworth pushed the sleeves of his cardigan up over his forearms and pursed his lips, unconvinced. Someone, he huffed, has been leaving piles of dog refuse at the end of my driveway, and this morning I stepped in one. He rubbed the sole of his loafer on the concrete in distaste. That is unacceptable.

Yes, sir. But it wasnt me, sir. My palms were sweating. He looked like the type who might pull a switch out of the garage. We were at a standoff. His Siamese cat watched us silently from the window, licking her front paw. I was weighing the pros and cons of framing my sister when Taffy took matters into her own hands.

While I was defending my dubious honor, the ingested crayons had been snaking their way through Taffys digestive tract. Bored with the conversation, Taffy chose that moment to prove her guilt and hunched over in the same place Mr. Rillsworth had been pointing to in his driveway. As he grimaced in disgust and my mouth fell open, Taffy produced a veritable work of art, a multihued cone of glory. It looked like a small tie-dyed ski hat.

I took advantage of the old mans shock to yank a bag out of my waistband and quickly scoop up the trophy. See, sir? I held my hand out, driving him back three feet toward his door. It wasnt us. My dog poops rainbows. Before he could retort, we scampered away, earlier events forgiven. From that point on, Taffy and I were a team.