Bitches…

September 7, 2014 at 12:10 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Sweet sticky things)

Devil Dog

Devil Dog

…And their sons.

This one’s going to the dogs.

People ask how I tolerate the assholes at work? The mouthy tough-guys who run up to you like they’re going to hit you? If they can get you to flinch, they think they can bully you. I stand steely-eyed and ask, “What’s your point?”

See, if you walk a third-of-a-mile in my shoes, you get a lot of practice with sons of bitches giving you a bunch of attitude…

When we moved to the new house many years ago, my sister insisted on getting a dog. We’d not had animals since childhood, and she went a bit crazy. (A dog, six cats, mice, fish, it was a whole goddamn food chain.) Baxter the dog was a golden retriever, and he acted like a snooty gay butler. He barked twice in the three years we owned him. He was an eating-and-pooping lump on the floor. When he moved on to another level, so to speak, I could see no reason to replace him. We have plenty of other mouths to feed.

But no, sis insisted on another dog. This time she reached out to the country, and bought a German Shepherd bitch puppy. She was indoor trained already, my biggest concern. I tend to walk barefoot in the house, and squishy stuff between my toes is NOT FUCKING COOL when on a mad dash to the bathroom.

Of course, sis left the dog with me when she went on a road trip. I fed her, let her out when necessary, but I didn’t know all the cues, and one day she was acting all funny in the hallway. “What is it, girl?” (Hey, it works with Lassie…) She couldn’t tell me. But soon I figured it out. She gave me the sorriest look, and cut loose with about a foot-and-a-half of real estate-occupying dog poop. It was the second-most poop I’d ever seen come out of a dog, and I couldn’t be mad. She tried to tell me.

Hombre

Hombre

After the light rail started running, I began walking a different route to my commute. Every day I would pass what we called the Mexican Junkyard. It was a gated-off house/compound with lots of trucks, with the meanest looking dog I’d encountered since I was five and afraid of Thor, the neighbor’s bulldog. He was a pitbull with a giant head, and I named him Hombre.

Hombre thinks he’s a badass, and I didn’t want to test the theory, but I learned early on that if you show fear they own you. So when he’d run up on me, barking loud and hitting the fence, I’d say “Morning, Hombre!” He’d deflate, and after a month or so it became a game. He’d recognize my hair, or my walk, and lay in wait.

“ROWRROWOWRROOOOWR!”

“Nice try, buddy, maybe tomorrow.”

One day I walked past, and the gate was open. He stood there, staring at me. His look said, “I could eat you right now.” I said, “Morning, Hombre,” and kept stride. He’d made his point.

To be fair, when he would make me jump, I would give him high praise as I laughed. I didn’t attempt to pet him, though. His look said, “This is work, motherfucker.” One very hot day he laid on the stoop of the compound-house. He saw me walking by, usually an invite to cacophony. He twitched one ear, gave a half-hearted “woof” and resumed napping. “Duly noted, Hombre!” He’d done his job.

OtisAround the corner from Hombre lives Otis, a giant bulldog that looks exactly like the dog I’d feared so as a child. Otis barks once in a blue moon. High-pitched. (Keep quiet, Otis. You’re scarier that way.) He’s about fifteen years old now. I will miss him standing on the stump, looking like the the hood ornament on a log truck.

Down from Otis is Wrinkles, a Sharpei-looking son of a bitch. He runs up against the fence, without banging, and gives me a vocal escort along his fence. I can hear him in the house when I walk home late at night. I bet his owners love me.

Perhaps the most amusing dog lives across from Otis. They play together. This dog looks like a huge white poodle. (I’d heard the breed is called a Bouvier, not taking time to Google.) This dog’s real name is Wendy, or Sally or some cutesy girly name, but in our circle this dog will live in infamy with its new name.

Rimjob.

Once Rain heard me address the dog this way, it became her new thing. On her way to the train, she’d be yelling “Good morning, Rimjob! How the hell are ya, Rimjob?” One lady dared to ask why she called her that, and Rain replied, “Have you seen that dog’s filthy mouth?”

Last but not least, we have my nemesis, a tiny poodly-looking dust mop of a dog that lives in the Asian duplex. It attacks the fence like all the other dogs, but is small enough to get through an occasional opening. as I wandered home at 1 AM, I saw the dog yapping, but ignored it in favor if the NIN track on my MP3 player.

Mistake. As I passed their driveway, I felt a burning pinch on the back of my left calf. I spun around to see the little dust-mop backing off, yapping. Then I saw the Asian lady in her bathrobe, screaming and calling her dog.

“Your fucking dog JUST BIT ME!” I must have said it with some force, because both she and the dog were balls-out back into the house. Her flowing robe reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West flying around a corner.

I went home, took my wrappings off and looked. The dog didn’t puncture the denim in my pants, or my sock, but left two canine holes and a red mark at the bite spot. So I took a picture, called the cops, and filed a police report. If I get an infection, I’m gonna make some money this time.

Now when Rain and I walk past the Asian duplex, she calls out, “Here Chicken Nugget!” Because Rain will fight for me, she said, “I’m gonna kick that fuckin’ dog so hard and high in the air he gonna come down labeled ‘Chops, nuggets and hot links.'”

Sandy’s tail is thumping on my door. It’s because Rain is home. Sandy doesn’t get too excited when I come home, she just waits to see if Rain is with me, then goes back to guarding the house. Rain has been bribing her with doggy biscuits. That’s all right, after seven years on duty she deserves all the love and happiness we can give her nearly-blind soul. She’s getting old, as are we all. Damn you Sandy, you make it impossible to be hard-hearted.

Guess I’d better go greet the day. Good morning, bitches!

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1 Comment

  1. Doge said,

    Such Blog.
    Very Post.
    Amaze!

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