Royal Pain

Artwork by Michael DiMilo

By Geoff Carter

I went out on my porch the other day to water the plants and I noticed a woman walking her dog. She was youngish, maybe in her late twenties, and all-in-all, a relatively unremarkable person. The dog stopped in front of my house, sniffed around, picked a spot, and did his business. The woman then—without cleaning up after him—continued with their walk. 

Of course, I was a little incensed. I ran down to the sidewalk. The woman and her hound were already half a block away, so I yelled out.

“Hey lady, your dog crapped on my lawn. Are you going to clean it up?”

She wheeled around and walked back toward me. 

“I don’t appreciate being yelled at,” she said. “It’s rude.”

I was taken aback at this unexpected reaction. I thought for sure she’d be apologetic or ashamed of not cleaning up after her dog. Or a little contrite. At the very least, I thought she might be embarrassed. But no, this woman started berating me for calling her out, telling me how rude I was for shouting at her. 

I was so surprised I caught myself starting to apologize to her but stopped myself in time. She told me—pointedly—that she had been heading home to get a bag to pick up the poop when I called her out.

“How was I supposed to know that?” I asked. 

“I’m not the type of person to leave a mess like that,” she retorted.

I’d never set eyes on the woman before. Which begged my previous question. How did she thing I was supposed to know that?

As it turned out, she did come back and clean up the poop, and I tried to thank her, but she refused to even acknowledge me. I watched her strut away, wondering what sort of person had the chutzpah to yell at a complete stranger who just watched her dog poop on his lawn. Thinking about it, I had to wonder if she ever realized she was in the wrong—or even that it looked like she was. Apparently not. Or maybe she just didn’t want to fess up to it, like those guys who never apologize, thinking that might be construed as a weakness. But her self-righteousness as she began berating me, after her dog had crapped on my lawn, astounded me.

Of course, this sort of arrogance isn’t uncommon. During my days of working retail, I met all sorts of rude people—those who browbeat, chastised, insulted, and verbally flogged the hired help. Most of the time, it wasn’t even because the service was lacking. I suspect some people act that way because they can, that they tend to instinctively exercise authority over others whenever possible, sort of like dogs vying for dominance in a pack. 

But the dog woman exuded a different kind of outrage, almost a sort of moral indignation. Somehow, she made me feel I was in the wrong for even calling her out. Maybe, I thought, it’s a millennial thing. Typically—although not rightly, I believe—millennials are perceived as lazy and spoiled. And entitled; this one was certainly acting entitled, as if she had the right to the moral high ground no matter what she—or her dog—had done. 

Or maybe her behaviors were symptomatic of the Covid hangover. We’ve all seen the increasing rudeness and violence in restaurants, on airlines, and in schools as our society returns to normality; it’s been attributed to the frustrations of months in quarantine, a struggling economy, and the (insipid) opposition to mask and social distancing mandates. Maybe this woman’s frustrations had finally boiled over. Maybe her dog had become her best—maybe her only—friend and her reaction was in his defense.

This didn’t seem right, either. No, the reaction was all about who that woman thinks she is, that her integrity, even in the face of overt wrongdoing, should not be questioned. Her outrage arose from the fact that I called her out for doing something wrong. That someone would do that seemed unthinkable to her. It was as if she felt her inherent grace and kindness should be plainly evident. It kind of reminded me of the way my daughter would act when she was little and would dress up in a princess costume. It made her feel special, especially when everyone made a great fuss over her. 

It was if the dog woman thought she was a little girl still wearing her princess costume, that it was unthinkable that anyone might believe she was bad. Of course, she would come back and do the right thing. She was a good person and outraged that anyone would think otherwise. 

This sort of self-regard and—yes—narcissism is becoming more and more prevalent in our society. I can only speculate where it comes from. Maybe she’s got a personality order, maybe she’s a product of her environment, or maybe she’s a victim of our times. However, you’d like to slice it, however, the truth is that she was in the wrong. 

It doesn’t matter if you’re a princess or a pauper; if your dog craps on somebody’s lawn, you don’t walk away and then act as if you’re the victim. When you’re called out on it, you don’t get all pissy and self-righteous because somebody questioned your behavior. To do so is not only arrogant but dangerous. If we fail to acknowledge bad behavior in ourselves, then all behavior becomes equally evil—or equally good, and we won’t be able to tell the difference anymore. 

We’re not princesses or superheroes. People don’t know what we’re thinking. Most of them probably don’t care. We know each other by our actions, not by our intentions. 

Do the right thing. If you’re wrong, say so. And clean up your messes.