Cycling in the South Bay

Do you talk to your dog like an imbecile? I do. “Oh, shweet Shnykes, you such a goodie-woodie ol’ doggie-woggie!”

Yeah. Fucking imbecile.

Research shows that behaving like a sappy moron to your pooch makes you feel better, enhances your bond, and draws ol’ Fleabag closer into the family.

Research also shows that your mutt dgaf. For one, the dog’s commitment is already at 11; he’s a dog, fer fuxake. For another, he has already assumed you are incurably stupid. And finally, he knows that imbe-speak leads to pets and snacks.

Since we tend to relate to our dogs as if they were children, both in our speech mannerisms and our behavior, it stands to reason that we become defensive when they are threatened. By raccoons, for example.

Snykes’s paw pad is improving, but I now hate raccoons. Like, really hate. I used to think they were cute little rascals. Now I see them as vicious, bullying, rabies-carrying varmints.

Last night the nasty little motherfuckers came back, this time to the front door. Snykes and I heard them chittering on the front porch, but like Shaggy and Scoob we pretended not to hear as my knees knocked and his little tail hung between his legs. “Raccoons? What raccoons? I don’t hear no raccoons. Nuh-uh. Nope. Nuttin’.”

The chittering got louder and then they started scratching at the front door. I went from fear to rage. One hand on the doorknob and the other on the fireplace poker, I cracked the door and stuck half the poker through the crack, about four feet off the ground.

Sensing success, the vicious, fat little marauder jammed his snout through the crack as he pressed his body against the door, trying to force it further.

Like a blunt guillotine, I lowered the poker on his back and head, the steel rod resounding with a solid crack. He jerked his head away and dashed off with his buddies, screeching insults. Unfortunately there was no carcass around the house, or even any blood. The only thing the snow showed was the footprints of a most hasty retreat.

I went back in and closed the door. Snykes hadn’t budged.

“How’s my schweet wittle doggie-woggie Schnyky-schnookums?” I crooned. He thumped his tail and we celebrated our victory with a treat.

—–

END

Comments are closed.