The goddamn dog bit me again.
Yeah, you read that right. AGAIN. This is a particularly nasty one. Worse than the usual growl and nip.
It bled like hell after I took these pics. These attacks are completely unprovoked. This time, she was eating some green yarn and I went to grab a long thread that was hanging out of her mouth. Chomp.
I’m the only one in the family who gets the business end of her teeth. She’s generally pretty good with The Daughters and My Bride. We’ve spent untold $$$ on obedience classes and, in a fit of desperation, one-on-one training in our home, all to no avail. I still get snapped at.
I wish I could get rid of her but I can’t. Every time I broach the subject, The Daughters, who love her desperately, have a maniacal meltdown. If I got rid of their dog, it would be a long, long time until they forgave me. If ever. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say it would be a traumatic event for them. I’m trapped.
Someone gave me a load of canine psycho-babble about establishing dominance. I’m not interested in any of that jazz. If that dog ever bites either of the girls the way she bites me, I’ll throw her in the Shrewsbury River. Do you see those two little pinpoints of fire in her eyes? That’s not the result of lens flare or Photoshop trickery. That’s how she looks at me.
Later that same afternoon we visited the first street fair of the season. There’s a wonderful sameness to street fairs. Same food, arts and crafts, bands and activities, but I never grow tired of them.
Just look at this poor bastard. Minding his own business, rooting around in the mud and the next thing he knows, this:
With a big knife stuck in his back for good measure. Holy Mother of God he was delicious. I sent this pic to my sister, who’s no shrinking violet when it comes to a rack of ribs, and she said she couldn’t eat any him if she saw this. I can assure you that nobody seemed to have a problem.
I don’t know if it was on account of there being the first hints of spring in the air or if it was the intoxicating warm sun or if the chef really knew was he was doing, but both My Bride and I agreed that it was the most flavorful, succulent pulled pork sandwich we’ve ever eaten. A tiny tear of joy trickled down my cheek.
That evening I was pondering the fate of that poor pig. He didn’t do anything to deserve that! He didn’t hurt anyone or ask for trouble. His only fault was being delicious and slow. Then I thought of my rotten dog who has a comfortable home, two little girls who worship her and two square meals a day but, nonetheless, attacks me without provocation. Who deserves to live and who should die?
Why couldn’t we have gotten a nice cat instead? I’ve never liked dogs. They’re loud, dirty, needy and clumsy. They eat feces. Cats have a quiet, elegant dignity. Try to give a piece of shit to a cat to eat and he’ll look at you like the jerk-off you are and casually sashay away. Just look at my sister’s cat, Dexter, using the window crank as a pillow and sporting pretty, new Claw Caps. A fine specimen.
Cats move like dancers. I admire their cool aloofness. So did Charles Bukowski.
the strays keep arriving: now we have 5
cats and they are smart, spontaneous, self-
absorbed, naturally poised and awesomely
one of the finest things about cats is
that when you’re feeling down, very down,
if you just look at the cat at rest,
at the way they sit or lie and wait,
it’s a grand lesson in preserving
if you watch 5 cats at once that’s 5
no matter the extra demands they make
no matter the heavy sacks of food
no matter the dozens of cans of tuna
from the supermarket: it’s all just fuel for their
amazing dignity and their
affirmation of a vital
we humans can
only envy and