
"Huh?" I thought. I never heard of that. I am a Midwesterner for life and I don't recall ever hearing, or uttering, ope.
The next day, walking our dog Neala, she wanted to veer left when I yearned to go right. The leash went taut and I said, "Ope!"
Nah. Not ope, right? Couldn't have been ope. It probably was just "Oh!" with wetted lips from the cool Spring breeze.
Later, I encountered another walker at an intersection. We weren't sure who had the right-of-way, and we kind of did one of those little you-go/no-I-go dances and out of my mouth came another oh that sounded like ope.
Darn wet lips. It's gotta be the weather. Again, denial.
A day or two later, Neala, at leash's end, starting doing her business, but I didn't notice. Just as I was about give the tether a come-along tug, I noticed her arched back.
Ope.
There it was. Unmistakably uttered just as our pup was about to drop a deuce. A poop ope, if you will. I could no longer deny it. A clean and crisp ope with a P popped as pronounceably, precisely, and perfectly as the P's in pup or poop.
It's time to admit it. I am an ope'er. Admission is the first step.
In the days since I realized that I possessed this unmistakable Midwestern charm, I have caught myself ope'ing countless times. It comes from deeply within. I don't even have time to stop it. It's like my lips are connected to an optic nerve. The moment my eyes sense a surprise, an ope pops from my lips faster than you can say, well, ope.
Ope. Enough yarn-spinning. It's time to get back to work. You, too, ya ope'ers.
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