Just Don’t Get Bit!

“Hey Mister, will your dog bite? I’m gonna pet him…”

“HOLD UP! You might want to check with HIM first.”

If you’re one of those folks who firmly believe that dogs are nothing more than sweet little nieces and nephews draped in fur, you might want to drop this and pick up the latest copy of Dog Loving For Dummies.

But before you do, let me finish the story; might save you come appendages and/or digits.

For starters, I’m a dog lover—in a dog’s place. You may remember my old sidekick and boon companion, Tramp. I certainly do. In fact, I kinda gave up on dogs after him, simply because I could find no trace of his bloodline and couldn’t make myself settle for less.

Tramp was not my sweet little nephew. He was a 124-lb. American bulldog with a head like a basketball and jaws that crunched possum and coon bones like tater chips. Should a stranger walk up to me with him around, Tramp would get between us, place his shoulder against my knee and lean on it so heavily as to push me backward.

Stranger’s progress usually slowed considerably along about then…

He was friendly. He was protective. He was a DOG!

When he rode with me, it was in the back of the pickup, snapped into a chain in the very middle of the bed next to the cab. He could get to the sides but not over them. So here we are at a convenience store—minding our own business—and some rambling, four-toothed crackhead makes up his mind that he’s going to pet my bulldog…

Tramp had this stance he would go into upon rare occasion. I called it “squared up.”

His massive shoulders and chest would instantly become solidly flexed, and the head—already pretty much square—would lock on to whatever piqued his interest.

Prepare to repel boarders.

There, then, was the answer.

“Uh, no, get away from him and leave him alone.”

“But he’s such a purty ol’ dog. I just want to put my hand on him.”

“I told you ‘no’ and that’s what I meant. Better take a good, long, last look at that hand before you stick it over the side of that truck bed, cause if you do you ain’t getting it back.”

Tramp had squared up, silently. But he must have picked up on something in my voice, because I heard that threatening, guttural rumble.

Oh, boy.

I stepped between Ol’ Cracky and the truck, which is when Tramp lunged nearly fit to snap a chain.

Dude’s eyes were bigger’n oranges as he staggered backward and bounced off a parked F-150.

“Now, listen to me,” I suggested. “You ain’t going to pet my bulldog. If you try, he’s going to lock on to at least one of your arms, and when he locks it takes me an hour to get him unlocked. I don’t have time for that, nor do I want to have to gnaw his ears off trying. Besides, you’re going to be doing the Caterwauling Hoochie Coo the whole time and nobody in the parking lot should have to witness that.”

Not really sure if he heard me, but he definitely got the message from Tramp. Last I saw of him he was strolling down 80 West…

Two minutes later, lady comes out of the store, sees Tramp, walks up and asks if she can pet him! He sidles over with that tongue-flapping bulldog smile, slobbering like Tallulah Falls as she rubs his old head and tells him what a slob he is.

Yep. He’s a dog.

Kinda in direct contrast to my neighbor Al’s. Or, as I called him, Alolbuddyolpal!

Al had a dog(?) that weighed in about 3 pounds, 40 ounces of which were hair. Al would bring it outside on a leash for a little sunshine, R&R, and P&P each day. Until the morning he almost lynched it!

Yeah. I found out about it the morning I exited the back door and saw him looking up into MY oak trees, .22 rifle in hand.

“Uh, Alolbuddyolpal, what’s up?”

Caught unawares, he looked kind of sheepish as he explained.

“I had Prissy (sorry, but that was her name…) on a leash yesterday when a hawk swooped down and almost got her. If I hadn’t snatched her up, she would have been a goner. Thought I had broke her neck. Now I’m gonna get that hawk.”

Hmmmm…

“First off… in MY yard? Secondly, do you have any idea just how illegal that is on about 42 counts? And third, the old hawk is just trying to make a decent living. He’s probably got four or five head of chicks to take care of and thought Prissy might make a fair breakfast. Guess he didn’t know she’s mostly hair.”

Al did NOT see the humor and DID have a gun in his hand, so I thought it best to let any more mention of meals pass us by…

“You know what’s gonna happen if you do nail that hawk, right? All the neighbors are going to think it was ME. Yep, ol’ hardhearted redneck out slaying members of a protected species, right here in town, no less. They’re gonna say I need to be hung, not Prissy. So there’s something for you to think about all those years I’m in federal prison.”

Mollified, but far from satisfied, he warned, “OK. But if I catch him in MY yard…”

The very next day, my two boys were standing like statues in the yard watching a rabbit scooting past at about 25 yards. From the oak closest to the house, that hawk swooped down like a thunderbolt and nailed it almost before they realized what had happened.

Hey, at least it happened silently—at the right address.