My feelings regarding dogs are similar to my position on children. Mine are practically perfect in every measurable way; yours should have been aborted in utero, but since you missed that slim window of opportunity, a shotgun and a trip out behind the barn would make the world a markedly better place. My view was cemented this evening as The Husband and I took the ladies for our nightly stroll. We were approaching 27th Terrace and Holmes heading north when I saw what I first assumed was a sewer rat wearing a collar. As we came closer to the intersection it became apparent that it was, in fact, what one could charitably call a “dog.” I was still feeling charitable at that point.
We started across 27th Terrace and the “dog” turned tail and headed north on Holmes, eventually perching on the steps of a house which has been for sale for a good while now. I’m no realtor, but I’m guessing the ratty toys piled hip-deep on the porch, the fact that the screen door to my knowledge is no longer mechanically capable of closing and the occasional piles of trash bags on the curb for days at a time(it being difficult to remember the city’s policy of 2 bags free per week, extra bags must be stickered with tags available at a reasonable price and at a wide variety of locations…I guess it’s not that difficult after all) may be factors in its failure to move.
As we drew even with the house, out of nowhere a somewhat larger sewer rat appeared, barking, and rolled up on Beebs, scaring the shit out of her. It wasn’t too terribly long ago that she sent a rather aggressive coon packing out of our backyard, but tonight she was a bit off her game; she got this stricken look on her face and immediately backed out of her goddamn collar. This was my fault as I hadn’t un-velcro’d (de-velcro’d?) her martingale. Then the first sewer rat attacks the Doodlebug’s tail. The Husband’s yelling and kicking at it. I lunge for Beebs, because if she runs, she’s gone (dunno if you know it but greyhound’s are kinda fast). She’s confused as hell. The larger rat’s still attacking her. She’s turning in circles, dashing into the street, trying to avoid me because I’m screaming like a madman and she thinks I’m angry with her.
It was at this point I went ass teakettle in the middle of Holmes Road, scraping the hell outta my leg and breaking the buckle on my sandal. I hopped right back up and moderated my approach, using short dashes and my ‘calm mommy’ voice. It was at this point she gave up trying to avoid the rat and just hunkered down, praying for a swift end. I grabbed her in the middle of Holmes with the little sonofabitch still chewing on her tail. It was at this point the responsible pet owner in charge of these fine specimens appeared, helpfully yelling at her “dog” while it did its damndest to ignore her. I was sitting in the middle of the street hugging Beebs, putting her collar on her, simultaneously trying not to break into tears of relief and not to punch this woman right in the tits (I’d like to thank the lady in the Chevy for not mowing me down but I do wish I’d kicked that fucking terrier under her wheels as she zipped by).
The Husband had managed to separate the Doo from her attacker and keep the little shit at bay. We got ourselves sorted out, the owner eventually snatched the shitty dog that mauled Beebs and we got the hell outta there.
My new policy is to kick the living shit out of any dog that comes within kicking distance while we’re out on our walk and follow it up with a few shots of pepper spray.
So, I’m bruised and oozing blood from several vicious scrapes, I’m out my favorite pair of sandals which Merrell doesn’t make anymore, Beebs has a couple of scrapes on her ankle from the terrier’s teeth and I’m generally just pissed off. How’s your evening going?
The ladies, none the worse for wear: