Say whatever you will about dogs- they’re cute and dumb and a joy to own. My ass, dear reader. These beasts are not the best friends of any man. They are conniving, calculating monsters who do whatever they can with whatever they have to completely ruin your day.
Specifically, I’m speaking of my own dogs. Gigantic, slack-jawed retards who eat more than they weigh and have absolutely no shame in their hearts. Mastiffs are supposedly a noble breed meant for protection and the loving adoration they bestow upon their owners. I say they are devious creatures who love a good laugh every now and then.
To illustrate, allow me to relay a tale of intrigue and suspicion.
One day, as I was walking up the path to the driveway, I noticed our largest dog, Deacon, behaving rather strangely. He was slinking around in the tall prairie grass in that manner of an animal who has done something very wrong and fears the consequence. I looked briefly around and, seeing no obvious damage or, you know, dead cat, I continued on my way.
It was nearly dark, the dusk waning as night overtook it, and I reached my old Buick just as the sun went fully beyond the horizon. I opened the driver’s side door, and leaned across the seat to reach my c.d. case lying in the opposite floorboard. I remember slightly kicking the velour interior of the door to prevent it from slamming on my exposed ankle.
That was when I first noticed the smell. That horrid, meaty stench that can only mean one thing permeated the inside of my car and I gagged against the soft armrest. Dog shit. A fair amount of it, judging by the strength of the odor. My head jerked upward and I glanced around in a maniac fit, trying to locate the source.
There, on the plush velveteen lining of my old junky car, was a reddish-brown stamp in the exact pattern of my boot-soles. Son of a bitch. Cursing the gods, the dogs, and any other entities whose names are anagrammatically interchangeable, I shoved my furious form back out of the car. And right back into the same monstrous pile of steaming excreta. God damn it!
Using an old t-shirt to brush away the foul goo from my door, I stomped my heavy boot against the gravel in a vain attempt to rid my feet of the abomination. The smell was overwhelming, like hamburger and bacon left to ripen in the rainforest.
Satisfied that my work had accomplished all that could be hoped for, I turned to make my way back home. That was when I noticed it. There, black against the moonlight like the eyes of a golem, were enormous ice-cream dispenser curlicues of fresh dog shit all tactfully hidden in the low grass beside our walk-way. Deacon. The little bastard.
I finally managed to make it home, but not without one more incident to put the icing on an awful cake. As I climbed the steps up to the house, the crap I’d assumed was wiped away from my boot heel lubricated the stairs just enough to send me sideways off the porch and into–yep, you guessed it–another pile of dog shit.
How does one counter-act such a blatant attack on their well-being? Do I beat the dog to within an inch of its life?
Do I drag the gargantuan monster from pile to pile and rub his nose in each?
Or, do I personally go and crap wherever I know he makes himself comfortable during the day?
That seems like the ticket. Just go and lay a fat log everywhere Deacon is sure to walk, eat, drink, or sleep. That’ll show him. Asshole.