It seems I need a bruiser to accompany me on my afternoon strolls.
I was set upon by two wild curs. Mixed breeds with devil eyes. Go by the names of Sassafras and Bishoprick.
I was minding my own business, whistling some refrain from “Pretty Young Things” when the two misfits mauled me.
The smallest, a puppy — but don’t let that earn your sympathy, he was the biggest brute and aptly named Bishoprick — clamped his milk teeth on my fingerless glove and tore it off. His mate, a solid looking canine who you might imagine likes nothing better than to stretch out before a fire and get tickled, locked my trousers in his frothing jaws and yanked like I was a bunny.
I screamed. I called out my friend’s name, who usually walks with me, in vain.
The whelp capered about with my glove in his mouth while his abettor tugged on my trews, preventing me from snatching my glove back. And it’s a bitterly cold day out. I needed that mitten.
So I’m dragging the one mutt while pursuing the other.
And the owner’s in the ditch, scooping up shit in a plastic bag and squelching it between her fingers.
I call out like a good-natured Tony Blair, “Excuse me, I think your pups think I’m a play thing.”
To which the owner replies, “Yes, they like men. Especially Bishoprick. I’m not sure why. His mother was a bitch who’d take a bite out of any man who was more hen than cock.”
As she dilly-dallied along the path, thick with leaves and my spittle, I noticed a stick. With some effort, and a tear in my trousers, I bent to scoop it up.
Now, I’m ashamed to say this, but I, well… I started to hit the owner with it. Just little taps, mind you. But it did the trick.
The mutts thought I was playing. So now they turned their attention to their owner.
Now to say my action didn’t incur her wrath would be like saying that Guy Ritchie fondling another woman’s bodice wouldn’t infuriate Madonna.
The woman went berserk. She grabbed Bishoprick by his scruff and beat the dog biscuits out of him. He whimpered, dropped my glove, and peed on my shoe.
Next she kicked Sassafras, man’s best friend, to within an inch of his loyalty.
I swear she was foaming at the mouth.
I nabbed my glove, straightened my trousers, and scarpered.