A Brief Glimpse Into the Ziegel Family Collective

Ziegel

My family, since around 2009, has consisted of my two lovely parents, Kelly and James, my two (I’m not sure lovely is the right word here?) older siblings, Abby and Josh, myself, and our now rather elderly dog, Maggie. Naturally, along the way, we’ve picked up some frogs, way too many rodents, a chameleon, and now another little dog, Penelope. But Maggie was the star of the show for a long time: a rather dumb rescue with a severe shedding problem and a nasty habit of biting mail-men (for legal reasons, that final statement is a joke).

Getting a dog was, in some ways, inevitable with three children; it was more of a “how many times can they ask before we give in” sort of game—I’m surprised my parents lasted as long as they did. The first few months of Maggie, in my six year old memory, were hellish. I was more than a little terrified of the newest member of the family. She was loud, energetic, and had no understanding of how sharp her puppy teeth were. I have vivid memories of standing on the sofa, scream-crying, while she ran around the living room having the time of her life. Of course, we’ve since moved past this, but for a while we had some unspoken divide between us.

And it wasn’t just me; my whole family had to learn how to maneuver life with a puppy. For the first time ever, we were learning what couldn’t be left on the ground, what worked best for carpet stains, how many lint rollers a husky-owning family needs to buy to survive summers, how to pick up poop in a sophisticated and efficient manner. These things take time. You learn through trial and error. Lots and lots (and lots) of error.

For six years I never touched a piece of poop. It’s a shame luxuries like this are wasted on our brief and clueless youth—what I would give now to walk a dog and leave the humiliation of a warm handful and a fumbled baggy-tying to the adult walking with me…! But, we all lose our ideal selves eventually. It was suddenly my turn to show some responsibility around the house, damn it. If I wanted to keep Maggie, shouldn’t I have to take care of some of the duties tasks involved? Yes, Mom.

“Then go outside and help your brother and sister, please.” I was displeased, but not altogether upset. She had a point, of course. So, I waddled outside, and started picking up dog poop alongside Abby and Josh.

Being six meant I was inescapably dumb, and unfortunately would be as such for another decade or so. I mean, I had no critical thinking skills, no ability to read a room, very little success as an intelligent member of society. I saw things happening and forgot them the very next second—sure, I saw Dad get hurt burning himself on the stove, but I’m not Dad… Sure, I saw Abby and Josh with plastic baggies on their hands while they were picking up dog poop, but I’m not Abby and Josh…

Some things we simply cannot live down. A pile of week-old dog poop in your bare hands, for example, just cannot be forgiven by today’s standards. Especially when you have two cruel older siblings standing next to you and two parents standing inside at the window, all watching you, all laughing, all un-helping.

The memory after that is vague: I cried out of shame, my family kept laughing; my mom helped me wash my hands, still laughing; we had dinner together, all of us laughing; years go by, it gets brought up at events, we tell it to guests, who laugh. I am bound for the rest of my life to a small dog’s bowel movements and a six year old’s unthinking hiccup.

This is what it means to belong to a family: I have grown up and pursued an education, moved 3000 miles away from home, made friends whom I adore, fallen in love (fallen out of love!), read hundreds of books, gotten a job, found a life for myself. I have changed into a person I am happy to be; I have a real personality and opinions and beliefs.

And if you ask my family about me, they will tell you that I like to touch dog poop. With my bare hands.

About the Author