I'm Going to the Dogs

When you amble about in your nice black coat and your well worn cowboy boots, even when you ride on a train…those places where people don’t make eye contact…if you are with a small white terrier, people smile at you, scratch the dogs ears, ask you questions, treat you as someone who is obviously a nice person, gentle, friendly…look at the dog. No one with a dog like that would be a mass murderer or a flasher.

When you amble about with a small white terrier and a large white pit bull in the same clothes, with the same smile you always wear when you see people, they give you a wide berth…not knowing the pit bull is cowed by the small terrier.

When you amble about with the small white terrier and the cowed white pit bull and a blind, amazingly ugly, sweet brown poodle in a green sweater, people walk up and talk to you out of the blue as the three play lease maypole with you as the maypole.

I’d love to say something all warm and fuzzy here, something along the lines of the younger dogs gently nudge the sweet, ugly older dog into place as she shambles along, to keep her from running into something, or that they slow their longer strides when she lags behind…I’d be lying.

I struggle to keep them in check, while she is setting her front paws to not move. I beg, I plead, I coax…they pull me in two directions forward; she sits and digs her claws into the pavement.
I’m impressed, to be dead honest. For a dog with bad hips, a lower jaw that is caddywumpus to the upper one, four teeth and is blind, she’s got gumption.

We wrestle our way down the street, me with three leashes wrapped around my legs, praying I am not pulled into the middle of traffic when the big red DON’T CROSS NOW, YOU’LL BE KILLED sign is up. The thing is, where I am now, it’s very laid back, so, it’s more of a, “HEY, YOU MAY WANT TO BE CAREFUL HERE….OR NOT. NO ONE IS FORCING YOU TO DO ANYTHING. HAVE YOU HAD THAT WEED THEY ARE SELLING OVER ON JANE STREET? WHOA, IS THAT ROBERT DINIRO?”
We walk to the park, the large male running about, the terrier calling him back, the poodle waking in circles….me keeping an eye on them, and doing my usual blatant eavesdropping on whatever and whoever is about.

And I’m doing the curbing stuff when they do their stuff. Good grief, do they do stuff. That part, I can do without.

It’s a repeat journey homewards, tugging and being pulled and happy dog grins and marking territory. The stubborn one is in a brisk walk mode now, she’s going home. I struggle with the key and locks and they make a break for the elevator.

Our only other companion was the mailman.

I had a feeling it was his version of hell.

Inside the flat, I go into organising mode…the dogs walk about, deciding their places…t the poodle on the sofa goes into a fast sleep, snoring, her feet twitching in some long remembered run, the other two drop where they can find a place to keep an eye on each other, and I find a drawer to change about so that my friend and employer won’t be able to find a thing, but…I’ll be feeling sassy over how great it looks.

It’s a good gig.