I don't know about you folks. But the utter insensitivity I experienced this afternoon takes the biscuit. Let me give you the facts.
At 4 this afternoon, I was sitting on the dash of the motor home when a plethora (I believe that means a large number, according to the boss) of mutts began to circle in front of our home. There's this nice little grass open space - usually used by dogs that walk by and pee on, I might mention – and there were suddenly nine or ten dogs parked out there, no more than 12 feet from my nose. They got in a circle when a large lady with an elastic stocking on one leg began coaching the owners of these vermin.
Lord, it was hilarious to watch these pathetic creatures as they circled their owners and seemed to actually pay attention. Can you imagine. They paid attention when they were told to “sit” and to “come”. They always were rewarded by treats when they performed like trained seals, by the way. Tssscchhhh! They can be bought off so easily.
I sat there on the dash and watched these goings-on while I licked my genitals. This is the equivalent of a Muslim throwing shoes at a president. It is my way of saying: “You are nothing but a dog!”
The lesson went on for an hour. There was a moronic bulldog. You know the type: Teeth that don't really fit correctly. They pretend to look ferocious but they're really kind of sad creatures. There was a tiny Yorkie – no more than a pound in weight. I could have taken him down so easily. There were two huge puppies that seemed to be a cross between a bloodhound and a German Shepherd. Now these were a little scary – mostly because I would have had some difficulty bringing them to heel. Maybe I could have done it one at a time. But I doubt I could have managed both simultaneously.
There was a German dachshund with her belly scraping the ground. She needed to be put on the barbecue and then put on a bun with some mustard. A poodle rounded out the top bunch (the rest are not worthy even of mention). There's something really dippy about a poodle. Why do they permit themselves to be carved up with these silly-looking pom-poms?
The boss took me outside and put me on my leash. Oh-oh, that got their attention. The instructor with the elastic bandage on her leg became a wrangler and had a hard time getting these pathetic mutts to pay attention to her. They all were intrigued by your's truly. I just sat on the picnic table and kept an eye peeled for any rogue pooch that might go off the reservation and think he might try his hand are being a hero by threatening me. Fat chance!
In other adventures, the parental units loaded me in our snazzy new car and drove me across the state of Florida this past weekend. They were off to visit an old friend. Turns out the old friend now has a West Highland Terrier. I recognize the boss has a thimbleful of Scottish blood left inside him. And he really seemed to like this Scottish dog. He told a story about a terrier like the one we were visiting who is honored by a statue in Edinburgh, Scotland. The dog was named Greyfriar's Bobby. The dog apparently was so loyal to his owner that when the owner died, he lay on the grave of said owner every day for a number of years until he himself died.
I was VERY nervous about having to share a house with a pooch. But, I must admit, the dog actually was kinda of interesting. First of all, she's a "she" and that seemed to make us mates at a certain level. She had a nasty tendency to sniff my butt as I walked through the house – my God, how I hate that.
But we actually did get along. She kept trying to be buddies by presenting me with her pull toy. I think she believed she and I could co-mingle and be friends. It just isn't in my DNA that I would ever be a friend to a dog. But, if the time ever came when I had to choose a dog with whom I might share a house, I definitely could be lured into living alongside Schotzy, the West Highland Terrier. She doesn't bark and she definitely didn't try to dominate me.
So that's my first attempt at blogging. It is hard to get the paws on the correct keys. Hope you like it.
