I grew up with the saying, “No good deed goes unrewarded.” My family told me that, my church told me that, and my school told me that. If you did a good deed, you got a reward.
Somewhere along the way, though, I began to suspect that somebody was pulling my leg. I did good deeds and got nothing in return. My mother told me, “Your reward is just knowing you did the right thing.”
I’d rather have a $5 bill or a king-sized Baby Ruth.
Then I heard the rather cynical revision of the old saying: “No good deed goes unpunished.”
Based on my experience, that statement seemed much more accurate.
I first encountered the negative side of good deeds as a teenager when I saved a baby bluejay. It had fallen out of a nest before it could take flying lessons and landed on the sidewalk looking stunned. I checked for Mama Jay nearby and found nothing. The nest was too high for me to put the bird back in so I took it home to raise.
I put it in an old bird cage we had. I spent my spare time rummaging for bugs and worms outside and cleaning the cage. I had to feed the bird worms by hand, EEUU! I couldn’t go far, because baby birds have to eat constantly. They also make an inordinate amount of mess in their living quarters, so I was on constant cleanup duty.
I was giving up time with my friends to do Mother Nature’s job for her, but I was proud of my dedication to bird-dom. I knew a reward was waiting for me somewhere.
When Baby J. had enough feathers, I taught him to fly, letting him sit on my finger, then withdrawing it so that he could practice fluttering to the ground. He got stronger and fluttered longer distances.
Finally, he could fly around and would come back to my finger or my head to perch. Then one day he left for good, launching himself from my head into the wild blue yonder.
You’d think I would be given the Bird Rescuer of the Year Award. No. Not only did I never see the feathered little ingrate again, but he also left me with a parting glob of bird poop in my hair—proof positive that no good deed goes unrewarded. Or unpooped on.
Recently I was waiting my turn in the ladies restroom in a restaurant. A girl came out of a stall, washed her hands and announced, “There are no towels,” dried her hands on her jeans and left. Another girl came out to wash her hands.
“There are no towels,” I told her. “Before I go in, why don’t you get some toilet paper to dry your hands on?” She thanked me and got some paper from my stall. I had done my good deed for the day.
Then I went into the stall, only to find when I had finished that she had taken the last of the toilet paper. “No good deed goes unpunished,” I mumbled as I fished through my purse for a tissue or an old grocery receipt.
My latest experience with the negative rewards of good deeds has been with my two adopted dogs, Buddy the Chihua-mutt and Betsy the Shih-tzu-wannabe.
The first thing we noticed when we gave these pooches shelter was a sudden outflow of cash—$1700+ so far and counting. They feel the same regret at costing us money as their home nations of Mexico and China do at taking our business away. None.
Part of the outlay was the electronic fence we bought to avoid having to take them out in the dark and cold on leashes to do their “jobs.” But the directions make setting up the device sound about as simple as building your own nuclear reactor, so at this point we’re afraid to turn it on. I’m also afraid of a lawsuit from the ASPCA when the first jolt of electricity hits one of them. I’m sure they’d notify Richard Schwartz - “One call, that’s all.”
But the dogs are okay about doing their business in the house. Even without the occasional poop pile, my floors look like an obstacle course at dog obedience school. You have to step over a pile of dog toys to get in the door. Then you may trip on the pile of strings they pulled off a toy that came with a long black tail. They haul one string at a time and deposit it in a different room. I keep thinking I see snakes all over the house.
They sometimes swallow the strings. Then they have vomiting contests. I’m having flashbacks of Baby J.
I guess I could put the pups back in the road, but I can’t imagine life without them. Well, actually, I can: clean floors no poop, no vomit, no dog hair on my pants, money in my pocket again.
But I knew what I was doing when I took the little hooligans in. No good dog rescue goes unpunished. I’ll just have to live with my mother’s promised reward: I know I did the right thing.
Now, pass me that pooper-scooper and a bottle of bleach.
