Monday, April 4, 2016


I took a friend home today and heard their early warning system, shrill yip-yip's, before opening the door to their pit bull wannabe.

An invasive bugger, it peeled back its lips and snarled within an inch of my ankle, fortunately shod in a hiking boot. Friend and I tried to speak while their minute ferocity stalked and snarled, a guard-chihuahua!

The dog soon attained PIA status (pain in the arse.) I let it smell the back of my hand... to more baring of teeth.  Leaning down, I offered a commitment in friendly tones:

"I like dogs, but here's the deal. You bite me, I'll drop-kick you."

My friend laughed, but knew I just might do it. I continued futzing with little chores to help my elderly friend get settled while the dog feinted and lunged.

I admit it, I do enjoy God's creatures great and small, but have a preference for working breed dogs, bred for intelligence. Decorative yip-yips are a struggle for me. 

The chihuahua eyed my departure, with an air of self-satisfaction, as though successful at last. 

I gave it the beady eye, with the message: I'll be back. And my bargain stands, Toots.

I have waded treacle trying to find a chihuahua photo. They're small; they're cute; they have little outfits: santas, angels, Easter bonnets... I found chihuahua counselors, chihuahua insurance. I leave you with this: 
The dog's a "rescue" and goodness knows its life events before the wife scooped it up out of traffic and brought it home. A lot of rescue dogs are skittish and belligerent from their abandonment/abuse and feral training.

Pretty much the same can be said of abused kids, who grow up to become abusers, first shellshocked and frightened, then rage-filled and hurtful. 

Bless the folks who mentor damaged kids and try to break the abuse cycle curse. I have cousins, grandparents with a good life on a ranch. They decided to become foster parents and share that good life, which has turned out to be a joyful and a PIA experience. Stars in their crowns.

My next exposure to a small-fry canine came at the library. I turned off the car, and sat there grinning. With the spring thaw, though snow's not done, a grassy area and line of trees in the parking lot have erupted into a prairie dog colony!
Two poked their goofy-looking heads out of big and numerous burrows, then stood up with litle paws dangling. I sat and watched the show for a bit.

Poof, they suddenly scuttled underground. 

A Jack Russell terrier, harnassed and leashed to its human, was in the process of dragging the owner into the trees. Jack Russells were trained to tunnel work in the long ago. 

Its spikey hair bristling, the fiesty critter pounced into a prairie dog tunnel, and nearly spread-eagled its human across the dirt mound!

I had the car window open and choked back a guffaw. Looked away as the owner re-asserted dignity and verticality. Brushed dirt off its front.

Woof, woof, just be still for a minute and no telling the entertainment in the offing!

Thanks for reading 
Storyteller Books


At April 4, 2016 at 8:24 PM , Anonymous Anonymous said...

A great story...and Dad's drop kick was to a pick-a-neese when he, dad, bent over to feed him and got a snap in return. I believe his story went that the dog got hung up in a tree. Love to you, gal.


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home