We live out in the country -- wayyyyyy out in the country -- in a county that has no leash law. This means that there are dogs running loose everywhere, including ours. Now, this hasn't really been a problem for us other than the fact that it has put a big damper on our plans to get an outdoor cat, because the dogs that roam our "neighborhood" mostly leave us and our dog alone, most probably because she's female and spayed.
There are two dogs up the road who have formed sort of a pack, a pack of two, if you will. And seeing them running around together amuses me to no end because one of the dogs is a gigantic, beautiful chocolate lab and the other is a wee little Chihuahua. Seeing them trotting down the road reminds me of that old cartoon where the little dog is hopping around all over the bigger dog and generally annoying the crap out of him, getting smacked to the wall but coming back for more, clearly idolizing the bigger dog.
Except in this case, the Chihuahua is totally the boss. You can just tell. He's a punk and I don't like him. I imagine that if he could talk, he would sound like the French soldier at the top of the castle in Monty Python and the Holy Grail "I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries." His name is probably Pierre or Jean-Claude or something. I know Chihuahua's hail from Mexico but this little dog is definitely French. Aha! His name is probably Napoleon. That would explain a lot, actually.
See, I know this dog's a punk because I've had "dealings" with him. One day as I drove him, I noticed a cow was out. Being the granddaughter of a dairy farmer, I know this can be a big deal. I didn't want the cow to get hit by a car and I certainly didn't want anyone to get hurt if they were to hit the cow. So, I stopped at a neighbor's house to try to determine who actually owned the cow and I was met at the end of the driveway by Mutt & Napoleon. Mutt, of whom I was actually a little afraid due to his size, walked kindly up to me and placed his paw on my leg as though to say "Whoa. What are you doing, dude?" (I was totally hearing Keanu Reeves' voice in my head). But Napoleon acted as though it was his mission in life to destroy my ankles and my eardrums simultaneously.
But that's not what pisses me off the most about him. No, what gets me is that he chases my car. He runs pell mell towards my left front tire, teeth bared, as though he could actually catch me. And though there is very small part of me that would like to squish him like a bug, every time he chases me I slam on my brakes causing everything in my front seat to slide into the floorboard and my kids to slide forward in their car seats. Every time it happens I swear that next time I'm not going to slam on my brakes and just see what happens, but I can never do it.
But the weird thing is that he doesn't do it every day. Sometimes he just watches me pass, sitting on a little knoll, with what looks almost like contentment on his face. And then there are other days that he would like to drag my car carcass into the woods for his breakfast.
And I realized just this morning, as he serenely watched me pass, that I'm the same way. Some days I feel content to watch the world go by and some days I just want to take a swipe at everything that goes up the road.
So maybe, just maybe, I'll cut him some slack. Maybe he's just having a bad day. Maybe.
6 years ago