The greyhound, after a long night of hookers and booze
I’m queen of “speak first, consult brain later” conversation. But eventually, my brain does catch up with my mouth, I realize I sound like a blithering idjit, and I shut up.
But some people have an amazing capacity to spew stupidity without an ounce of self-awareness. Most of these people are in politics, but ordinary folks aren’t immune to stupid.
One particular encounter with stupid revolves around a stray dog. The setting being the morning dog walk, a few days ago.
The greyhound is extremely shy. As far as he’s concerned, there are only two trustworthy beings in the universe. Me and my husband. Everyone else, including his fellow canines, is suspect.
The last thing he wants is to meet and greet pushy stray dogs, even if they are “friendly.” If pushed too hard, he’s likely to get snappish. In my experience, even “friendly” dogs can get nasty when provoked, so my standard stray/off-leash dog procedure is to keep the loose dog away from the hound.
When we were approached that morning by a big, black, lab/shepherd mix, I did what I always do. I stood my ground, glared at the dog, waved my walking stick menacingly, and said, in a deep, growly voice, “No!”
This dog, who I suspect was quite sweet, was also dumber than a bag of hammers. And he just kept coming. So I scooped up a handful of gravel and chucked it at him, repeating the “No!” And he marched toward us, gravel bouncing off his coat, unfazed.
The hound was already at the end of his leash, near panic. When the black dog got within whacking range, I gave him a firm tap with the stick. This deterred him for about a second, at which point,…lather, rinse repeat.
This unfortunate beast was clearly the kind of canine genius who would come home with a snout full of porcupine quills, day after day, after day.
Anyway, as this is going on, a guy from a nearby property peered over his fence and said, “Whose dog is that?”
“I don’t know,” I said and whacked the poor, nit-witted dog again.
“What?” said the guy. At which point, I gave him an exasperated shrug. He started to babble about who he thought owned the dog. I, having pushed the stray far enough away, continued on, ignoring whatever the man was saying.
I’m not good at thinking on my feet. But what I should have said was, “This dog? He’s mine. It’s a game we play. I take him for a walk, let him go, and then throw rocks at him and beat him with a stick. He loves it!”
Oy.
