Tuesday, December 23, 2008
My dog has a friend. Whether that friend is she-male or he-male I have not troubled to ascertain. A fact of which I am certain is an abiding dislike for the unknown owner of my dogs friend.
I enjoy, above all periods, those hours between 0400 hours and the time I awake to either the sun or because I am naturally disposed to face the day. My dogs friend makes first appearance some time between four in the morning, or four o-five in the morning. My dogs friend is not my friend, and certainly my dogs friends owner is on my shit list. Whom ever that may be.
My dog is gaining more and more distasteful with his morning eagerness to greet his friend, and he has become so bold as to poke nose to my ear, emitting a whine calculated to rouse the sleeping me. Or, more correctly the homicidal me. He hasn’t a clue as to how close he treads to the dark side – given that a dog has an after life.
Yesterday, I discovered for the first time, up close and personal, the friend of my dog. I went, in nineteen degree weather with winds above twenty miles per hour, I might add, to the rear door of the house to let in my dog, he having prior begged to go out for half an hour or better, to let the animal into the snug warmth. And, Lo, there following my dog was this tiny thing, some where between twelve pounds and ridiculous, a party colored dog of unknown breeding, other than mutt, I think, though I do not know for fact.
Being the chartible individual I strive to cultivate, I expressed no doubt as to my friendliness and indicated as best I was able to a dog, that a friend of my friend was welcome, to be sure, in my company.
Fortunately, my dogs friend is unable to read my thoughts on such short acquaintance.
We arrive now at the crux of the matter, and that event which impinges my sanity and stresses my mild and forgiving ways.
Upon acknowledging this mite of an animal; having allowed my dog, still tethered I point out, on to the porch behind me, my dog began to bark. I focused my attention on the mite, and suddenly there appeared GAWD.
Now, I know it has been a period since GAWD has graced these pages. Though he has, from time to time, come around and been catered to and fawned over, and some few may or may not be aware GAWD is a one hundred and twenty pound great ass white dog.
Rather than discuss the rationality of GAWD’s territorial instincts, suffice it to say that he has tendencies to defend people and property rather than the sheep for which he was bred to care.
There is something about that last sentence which bothers me.
Well, to the point then. My dog, behind me, still tied to the house. A small dog in front of me. Freezing cold, both temperature and wind driven. Here comes GAWD.
GAWD then attacks the mite of a party colored dog. My dog attacks GAWD to save his friend (I assume, though there is evidence of mutual animosity of long standing.). My first instinct is to protect my dog.
The party thing flops upon his back, head averted, beneath the jaws of GAWD, my dog strikes GAWD just behind the left front shoulder and un-balances him. I’m holding the tie down straps attached to my dog.
The jolt, for which I’m unprepared to absorb, when the weight of my dog hits the end of the strap, threw me off balance and I step forward. My foot landing, with mis-guided accuracy, I must admit, square on the belly of the twelve pounds of crying, whimpering undetermined pedigree beneath the slavering jaws of GAWD.
I cannot pretend to know the mind of a brain capable of operating eyes, jaws, nose, ears, four legs and a tail with efficiency, but I do know when my foot arrived upon the belly beneath them, the slavering jaws of GAWD closed around said foot. With efficiency. Regretably.
I honestly regret losing contact with civility and rational behavior for some period thereafter. It was most unbecoming.
I did, however, land very telling hands upon GAWD. Their effectiveness was attested to by GAWDs immediate retreat beyond arms lenght. The mite of my dogs friend, presumably now assualted from all sides, rolled to his feet and bounded in a single effort an equal distance from my hands. Unfortunately, he landed directly below the re-positioned jaws of GAWD, where upon this realization, the mite again flopped on his back. Baring, I’m convinced, a well bruised signal of surrended to guardian of the flock. GAWD was eyeing the mite with equal dis-pleasure when I closed the outer door upon the scene on the patio.
My dog? Oh, I had thrown him back across the porch to thump against the house wall to await my pleasure. Which, I am afriad, is not to be forth coming for some time.
Faced with choices in the resolution of any repitition of this scene, I must now locate the owner of this mite of a dog and curtail this loose animal business. Sorry though I might be in the separation of my dog and his friend. I’m also sure that it will be pointed out by this strange individual that GAWD is loose all the time and, if him, why not mite.
To compound the situation, I’m convinced, without knowing the truth of the facts, but aware of my luck, or lack there of, that the owner of this mite of a dog, will be five foot two inch tall female weighting two hundred and forty pounds, with an attitude.
And who needs to introduce a cat to a dog fight.
From the reaches,