The other day Diana and I were walking the dogs on the usual route: from our house down to the riverfront trail, along the river to the dike and back home again. You run in to all kinds of people. A couple of weeks ago I happened upon three native Indians. Two were in full ceremonial creep-the-hell-out-of-me dress, complete with staffs with what looked nothing short of shruken heads with staw hair impaled atop the sticks, and the other was dressed in street clothes akin to a union rep. As I approached, the union rep acknowledged me but the satan worshippers turned their backs to face the river. I have no doubt they cast evil spells on me and my dogs so we are set to be exorcised next Thursday.
Anway, this particular walk with Diana we came across off-leash dog people. When you say that in your head think, “smokers”, or, “child molesters”. Now you must remember (or be informed) we have a new puppy whom we found via That’ll Do Border Collie Rescue. Bandit came from a bad situation in Montana but that is a whole other story. The off-leash dog people don’t know this, nor do we expect them to, nor should they assume everyone elses dogs are as perfect as their flea-bag mutt. As we approached, Diana attempted to keep Bandit under control as she can be unpredictable around other dogs (she loves to play). The guy (there was a guy and a gal) assured us his dog was friendly. He knows this because he speaks dog and regularly communes with other woodland creatures in the region. As half predicted Bandit lunged and barked at the off-leash dog. I don’t recall what the guy said, something like, “hey hey hey”, as though he was Fat Albert or something. Then he lectured Diana on how we’d never train Bandit to be as perfect as his off-leash angel and how we should want our dog to be friendly. Bandit is very friendly, we’re just not interested in seeing her get injured by a strange dog in a play fight gone wrong. Diana told the chain smoking child molester Bandit is our dog and we’ll train her how we like. The whole exchange was awkward but ended with both parties muttering to one another as we continued on in opposite directions. I silently wished the witch doctors were there to cast spells on them or at least put them on a picket line with no strike pay.
Diana and I grumbled about this for a couple hundred yards and then for some reason I remembered being at a restaurant and asking the server how the lamb special was.
“Oh, I don’t eat meat” she responded.
“Kindly step down off your soap box and lie to me about the fucking lamb you hippie”, I replied (or would have if I had a time machine).
The point is, I’m constantly amazed how people feel the need to inject their personal politics into every encounter with a stranger.
How dare they when only my personal politics matter?
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
Nice story.
Now hire the Union Indians to train Bandit to cast bad juju on flea infested mutts.
For a second there, I thought you were saying Bandit was doing a Fat Albert inmitation.
My poor engrish. Corrected.
Dammit Joe, this is why you need to write more!
Oh I hear ya.
Although he didn’t tell me how to train my dog, I had a frustrating walk last week too.
I was walking Cookie when I saw an older guy walking his Dalmation coming towards us. Cookie is a sweetheart, but when she’s on the leash and sees another dog, she lunges and barks. A lot. I think it’s a fear response. She’s on the leash and not able to run away, so she’s letting the other dog know to keep their distance.
I didn’t want to deal with it, so I started down the nearest driveway to cross the street.
The guy yells “No no.” and starts down the drive near him. I figured “Okay. he wants to cross instead. Fine.”
Instead of crossing he gets to the birm and continues on towards us. Like putting three more feet between us is going to do the trick. Of course it’s Lakeshore Blvd and now there’s too much traffic so I can’t cross and am forced to meet up with them with only the distance of the tree lawn between us. Cookie starts lunging and pulling me and of course his dog acts in kind. I didn’t even try to hide my frustration and anger from him. He sheepishly said, “sorry” as he dragged his dog away.
People.
Speaking of needing training, Lily, our three year old pure bred, has a habit of hugging men we are speaking to (recently, at the furniture store). Now Lily is generally crotch height, and hugs straight on, so awkwardness quickly ensues. I think the recent furniture victim was mostly afraid that guy from Dateline would pop out of a nearby overpriced armoire.
Were you littering on your walk? Perhaps this is why the Indians turned away, to hide the tears.
Jim
Now you’re showing your age. Sadly I too remember that commercial.