Thursday, October 21, 2010


I was sorely tempted to take a photo of a nice steaming pile of road apples for this post. But why add to the mountain of objectionable content already stinking up the internet? That said, I don’t find poo too offensive. Poo happens. It’s organic. It can even be a personal growth experience. One I’d like to provide, in excess, to a certain gas station owner in my county. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Ever have a day, or an hour, or even five minutes of pure contentment? You’re happy and successful; all is right with the world. Okay, I know those situations don’t last long, but let me share one with you:

I’m in the process of buying a new truck, a much nicer one then I’ve had. Let’s just say hot cars have never been a priority in my life. I should own stock in the bumper sticker that says, “Don’t laugh, its paid for.” For the last 17 years my husband and I have valued owning our vehicles outright. You can probably imagine what sort of vehicles can be paid for with cash out of your wallet. The last couple of years though we’ve entered a more comfortable stage financially. We can’t afford Mercedes or Porche, but the general appearance of our cars is improving. The truck I’m trying out now is owned by a friend: F350 Powerstroke with an extended cab. Ten years old. Hitched to my aluminum horse trailer it looks pretty nice. This friend generously gave us the truck to try before we buy.

And so Monday night I make my way, horse trailer in tow, to a 4H club ride night about an hour away. My daughter and I have a wonderful time with friends we enjoy and our horses remain healthy and well behaved. Proud to practice good stewardship of time (a near impossibility with horses), I leave early to get home and spend the rest of the evening with my son. Glancing at the fuel gauge I note that it would be wise to stop at a gas station. I pull in, swipe my card, and begin filling the tank. As it fills I look to the trailer in bliss—I love my horses, my family, the most likely soon-to-be-mine snazzy truck I am driving. I am confidant and content as I check the number of gallons pumped so far. It takes less then two seconds to morph into an idiot.

I am putting gas into a diesel engine.

Truck Driving for Dummies: Never, ever, put gas into a diesel engine.

An ugly, poo related word jumps from my lips. My heart races. I instantly call my BFF who is a few minutes ahead of me on the way home (to a pot roast dinner with her husband). This very thing happened to her F350 not long ago. I wail and moan, rant and rave. Like the best of friends she turns her truck and trailer around and returns to the station to commiserate with me and offer trailer space for my poor equine BFFs who are wondering why we’re stalling when an overdue dinner waits at home.

The first thing I do, after moving the truck away from the pumps, is tell the somewhat suspicious gas station attendant what is happening. I tell him I am sorry and that a tow truck is coming to remove the vehicle. BFF and I discuss what to do with the horses. My husband out of town, I am humble and grateful to have good people around to help. Briefly I consider calling the truck's owner. On second thought, the vehicle will be fine after the tanks are pumped and will rest safely at a reputable shop for the evening. My shame on public display already, I decide to wait until the morning to call and confess the deed.

After roughly two hours of waiting for tow truck, removing horses from one trailer and loading in another, and hitching my trailer to another truck, I’m ready to go home. Whew, what a night. I need to go to bed and rest my wounded ego. But no.

I have scarcely pulled into my driveway when Truck Owner Friend calls. They are wondering if something is wrong. Seems a sheriff showed up (10 o’clock at night) at their door. Supplied with the license number of the truck, the sheriff says a certain gas station owner is appalled that I would leave a few turds on his precious pavement and needed to get the law involved to ensure they are removed. Pronto.

At this point my inner 13-year-old makes an appearance: “Like, OMG! No way!”


I live roughly an hour from the scene of the “crime.” At this point in the evening there is one thing Mr. Gas Station can do with a few turds—Puh-lease! Proving the lengths a person will travel for a friend, Truck Owner takes care of the offending turds littering decent society. I have a feeling I am going to be buying this truck.

After calming down, being reassured the truck will be fine, and mapping the other gas stations I will now be patronizing in that particular area of the county, I pondered the positive side of poo happening.

Besides making one humble, dealing with poo makes one ever so much more compassionate when faced with the mistakes of others. And there’s nothing like experiencing poo to discover who your real friends are. Real friends stand beside you while the embarrassing smell emits from your life; they help you clean up; they remind you to laugh.

Thinking there’s an uptight gas station owner that needs a bit more poo in his life…


loriwoo said...

Oh my gosh, what a MESS< in more ways than ONE!
But leave it to you to write it in a way that gave me a few minutes away from my problems!

Catherine said...

Hey Lori, thanks for stopping by. You always make me smile:). I totally freaked out about that truck incident. Later I could laugh about it (and then it's blog material...heehee). Humor is the best therapy for bad situations, huh? As horse owners we've gotta laugh. Alot.

Angelique Scarlett said...

Well said Catherine. You sure do have a gift with words. You're a blessing and Happy New Year!