What's So Funny?

How old is too old to laugh at juvenile things? Whatever it is, I haven’t reached it yet. I enjoy bathroom humor as much as a six year old. If someone trips and falls, I am going to have to stifle a laugh before I can offer assistance. And don’t even think about naming the planet after Neptune in front of me, unless you want a barrage of blue gas and Klingon jokes, and who doesn’t? If something odd or socially inappropriate is going on, then count me in.

A few weeks ago, my family and I were enjoying a quick vacation at a beach near Charleston, South Carolina, with a good friend who had lots of extra place at his oceanfront rental. (Thanks again, MR!) We decided to go into the city our last night because seriously, it’s Charleston, and who needs a reason? We planned to enjoy a delicious meal at MR’s favorite restaurant but went to the Battery to kill some time before our dinner reservation.

Charleston is one of my favorite places of all time; I never get tired of looking at the same magnificent houses overlooking the mouth of the Ashley River, across from Fort Sumter. Between the houses and the seawall is the lovely White Point Gardens, where in addition to several historic statues and preserved cannons are some of the most amazing live oak trees. Those trees have survived a hurricane, a war, an earthquake, and a fire, and like Charleston itself, they somehow keep going in the face of years of so much disaster.

Walking through White Point Gardens, I imagine life in pre-Civil War Charleston. I can almost see proper Southern ladies out for an afternoon stroll, their slaves fanning them in a failed effort to keep them cool, their dogs frolicking under the shade of the live oaks, while their husbands and fathers lean against the railings of their porches, mint juleps in hand. The truth is, that park probably saw more pirates hanging and cannons firing than ladies strolling and slaves fanning. Never you mind; it’s my fantasy.

But dogs frolicking? That still happens every day, including the humid afternoon we paid the gardens a visit. We parked our car along the edge of the park and walked around, watching kids climb the pyramids of cannonballs and the many cannons that sit every so often along the square. We walked the entire perimeter of the park, taking in the view of the antebellum mansions on one side, the sailboats dotting the harbor on the other.  We peeked in windows and along porches, just enjoying the splendor of the historic district.

As we walked back toward the car, I noticed two majestic golden retrievers playing near where we had parked. Their owners were deep in conversation, not really watching the dogs at all.  I sort of glanced at them, registering their presence, but not really paying any attention to them. My younger daughter, S, however, who is in love with every golden retriever she has ever seen, was watching them intently.

“Hey Mommy, do you see those dogs? They are playing together. Look! Aww, they are so cute!”

I didn’t ignore her, but I was talking to my husband, and therefore did not respond fast enough for her.

“Mom, hey, Mommy. Do you see the dogs?”

Again, I didn’t answer her. It’s rude to interrupt people, and someone needs to teach her that.

“Mommy, look at the dogs!” she shrieked again.

So I did. To paraphrase a joke my grandfather used to tell, the one in the front was sick, and the one in the back was pushing it to the hospital.

I turned to my daughter and said, “Um, yes. I see them. Now I wish I didn’t.”

She turned bright red and said,” I swear they weren’t doing that a minute ago. I just thought they were cute; that’s all.”

My other daughter chimed in. “Gross. They need to get a room.”

“Or a kennel,” I added. The dogs were still going at it, humping away. If they were people, they would have already been arrested, or at the very least, YouTubed.

“Why won’t they stop?” S asked me.

“Don’t stop til you get enough,” I sang in my best Michael Jackson falsetto.

Which is when we all cracked up. I laughed harder than anyone, because I think I'm funny.

At that point, MR noticed the dog fornication and judged us. MR, who is still obsessed with “The Human Centipede,” had the audacity to say, “Oh, come on. Grow up, “ in disgust.

“Hey, she’s eleven,” I said to him. “If you can’t laugh at dogs going at it when you are eleven, when can you?”

He thought for a minute. “Hmm, you’ve got a point," and walked on to the car.

I, however, am not eleven. So what if I laughed?  At least I didn’t teach my eleven year old the expression “doggy style, “and believe me, it was a feat not to. They were dogs, and they were doing it doggy style, which to them is just “style,” I suppose.  Does it get any better than that?

Not for the dogs, it doesn’t.