Doggie showdown
December 31, 2005
It’s fun to walk the asphalt roads that wander up and down the Ozark ridges framing the lake coves. Clusters of homes pepper the shoreline. Some are permanent residences, but most are occupied mostly on sunny weekends and during summer vacation stays. It’s uphill and downhill as I leave our condo and head for Duckhead Road, which leads to Duckhead Point, which is the shape of a… well, you get the idea. On such strolls I often have the pleasure of meeting with one or more of the resident pooches.
I like dogs, and they mostly like me, but there is one canine in particular that I really would just as rather not meet. He is a Pit Bull, I think, a big dog whose shoulders reach above my knees; a yellow, ugly-faced cur with a mouthful of teeth and, I make no doubt, bad breath.
He has sort of a whiny, attention-getting bark, that seems to say, “You really are not worth barking at, but I’ve nothing better to do at the moment, and, besides, I need to let you know that you’re getting pretty close to my turf.”
His turf is the cluttered back yard of a waterfront house, down and to the left of the road. Some days he is chained up down there, a fact that doesn’t give me much comfort when he is loose and blocking my way.
I smile and make eye contact, saying, “Hello there, friend doggie. Why dost thee make such a racket?”
Friend doggie doesn’t smile, but his yapping starts to betray lack of conviction, and he condescendingly lets me pass. He is now behnd me, and quiet. Am I emanating the smell of fear?
I hear another couple of yaps, as if to say, “I still may attack your meager hams, but at least you are leaving my turf. Anyway, I really don’t have the energy to chase you. It’s a dog’s life, let me tell you.”
It turned out to be a good walk, after all.
Dave, who still likes most dogs.
Comments
Got something to say?
