If you who read my last blog, you already know my stance on
dead animals as gifts (definitively AGAINST for those of you who haven’t been
following along).
However, the other day Bub may have earned the right to bring
me any old dead thing he wants…here’s what happened:
I walked out into the backyard and noticed an odd looking
old man sitting on his bike right outside our fence, talking. For a second I thought he was talking to me.
He wasn’t.
He was responding to the voices in his head…but I didn’t
realize that at first. Because I didn’t realize he was crazy at first…Until he
came right up the fence and mumbled something about helping me sweep the yard.
And that was crazy since I wasn’t even sweeping the
yard—largely because I don’t know what that means—and because he didn’t have a
broom or any other sweeping implements.
So, I was a little
weirded out…and when I get weirded out Bubba gets worked up. And when Bubba
gets worked up, the Rottweiler half of his heritage kicks into high gear. Basically, he crossed the yard in 1.2 seconds
and charged the guy like he was wearing Milk Bone underwear (Pronoun
clarification: the second “he” in that sentence refers to the crazy guy, not
Bubba. Bubba almost never wears
underwear).
Peek-A-Boo also sensed danger and ran across the garden to
add his voice to the mayhem…then decided that, as a Chihuahua, he could better
serve me by wriggling through the tomato plants and eating any of the green
tomatoes in his reach.
His theory clearly being that anyone who saw such a bizarre
activity—I mean, what kind of dog eats vegetables right off the vine?!!—would
immediately realize that they were dealing with a creature heretofore unseen in
this world.
But I digress…
“Sir,” I shouted
over all the barking, “you should probably step away from the fence.”
Which I thought was a fairly clear instruction…but I don’t
speak crazy very well because, apparently, in crazy language my statement
translates into “Pay no attention to the hysterically, snarling dog. He is only joking with you and has no
interest in tearing your throat out and would, in fact, love it if you came
inside.”
Because he took a step closer to the gate and actually put
his hand on the latch.
(Side note: Let me take a second to answer the question that
I’m fairly sure my mother and close friends are screaming as they get to this
point in the story. Yes, in retrospect,
I do realize that this would have been the ideal time to go inside my house, lock my door, and call
the police if the man actually came into the yard. But I couldn’t because of the dogs…there was
no way I was getting Bubba inside while there was a stranger in the vicinity
and getting Peek out of the garden when he is on a tomato eating mission is a
HERCULEAN task. I couldn’t leave them
behind…and yes, in answer to the obvious second question, I understand that
most people think dogs can fend for themselves…but remember Peek is twelve-year-old
Chihuahua with a bad heart. He couldn’t
fend his way out of a wet paper bag.)
So I stayed outside
and tried to take charge of the situation.
“Seriously, sir,” I shouted.
“This is NOT a friendly dog.
He paused with his hand on the gate and briefly consulted
with his invisible friends.
“This dog will KILL you!”
I warned them all. And smiled in
order to communicate that I was equally as crazy as he was…just crazy enough to
CHEERFULLY let Bubba rip his throat out.
He seemed to get that.
Because he shuffled back over to his bike, spent another
minute or two in conversation with NO ONE AT ALL, and pedaled away.
It’s interesting to note that when my husband, Opie, got
home that night I told him about Bubba’s heroics and he brushed the whole thing
off…apparently he recognized my description as a generally harmless
neighborhood crazy man who’s lived in the area for years.
Which wasn’t comforting for two reasons:
1.
Because “generally harmless” and “harmless”
aren’t the same thing.
2.
The presence of such a person seems like
information that should have been shared FIFTEEN MONTHS AGO WHEN I MOVED IN…and
now I can’t help but wonder how many other potentially volatile people Opie is
aware of and has forgotten to mention.
However, in spite of all that, I’m sleeping securely in the
knowledge that generally harmless or even generally harmful crazies are
intimidated by an enraged Rottweiler (though, sadly, not by a Chihuahua who
really just wants to eat some tomatoes) so, if Bub decides he’d like to bring
me a dead mole or two this week, I’m not going to freak out like I did last
week.
Or at least, not as much.
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