Mad Dogs And Englishmen

September 15, 2006 at 4:54 PM | Posted in Journal | 8 Comments
  I have become a dog person, or at least, I’m beginning to become one.  It will take some time to fully embrace, but I am warming up to the idea.  I am doing it for Detroit, and for her, no matter what kind of animal she had, I would embrace the prospect with glee.
  Luckily, Mac is an easy dog to like.  We have discussed it, he and I.  One issue that he had, he told me, was that he was unprepared for the jealousy he would feel towards me, vis a vis our sex life.  Before, when Detroit was with Mr W., Mac had way more contact with her.  He realizes now that it is different, and he accepts it, but it was a culture shock for him.
  I expressed to him my own concerns, and he reciprocated understanding.  He will try really hard to help slowly assimilate me into dog ownership.  However, he chided me carefully, I don’t own him.  Detroit does.  A mutual respect will go a long way towards creating a friendly detente.  That look of disgust on his face when Detroit and I are having sex really has to go, then. 
  He eventually relented.  During one of our many talks, he sniffed at me and asked, "You’ve had a dog before, yes?  Tell me about it."  I lay on my back on the couch, and he sat in the chair, glasses down his nose, notepad and pen in hand, soothing music played. . . .
  Way back in nineteen and ninety-three, ’twas the year o’ the flood.  I wrote about my experience with Domino’s, and this was another episode in that season, soon to be released on DVD.
  Mac sighed.  "Get to the point, dude."
  Right.  My sister could no longer keep her cat, Charcoal.  A big, blue Persian, Mom had developed an allergy.  Basically a good cat.  Then, someone The Storm worked with had to move out of their house, and couldn’t take their dog with them for a while.
  Chelsea.  Don’t know what kind of dog.  About the size of a retreiver, but not as wide, and short hair.  Chelsea had three legs.  She was rescue dog, and the nicest, sweetest dog you’d ever meet.  I heard the story of her abuse, and it pisses me off.
  So we took her in for a month or so.
  It’s not enough for a dog to be housetrained.  The people have to be dog-trained as well, and we weren’t.  I worked late so I slept late, and The Storm got up early to leave for work and wouldn’t take the dog out because she expected me to do it.  I would wake up to a puddle at the base of the stares, as well as a nice dookie.
  Then the dog would run and hide, I guess because he was used to being beaten at this point.  I didn’t want to beat him–not really–but I did want to take him outside, and it usually meant I had to go and drag him from under our bed.
  One of these occasions, I was in the upstairs, retrieving the dog.  Guess I was a retriever, huh?  It sure was what The Storm treated me like–
  "Stay on topic, dude," Mac said.
  –So I am in the upstairs, pulling her out of the bedroom.  The landing at the top of the stairs is very small, like 3 feet by 6 feet.  Steps going down, our door, bathroom door, two other bedroom doors, just enough wall space to accomodate all of this.
  Chelsea liked the cat, Charcoal.  Chelsea like everyone.  But Charcoal did not like Chelsea, nor any other dog.  Probably no other creatures at all, including us people, but he tolerated us because we fed him, and petted him at his discretion.  Chelsea knew Charcoal didn’t like her, and so she teased the cat.  She liked to play with her, get close, invade the cat’s personal space, things like that, just to piss the cat off.  It was funny as hell.
  The cat is up on the top landing, minding his own business, snooping around.  I am trying to drag Chelsea out.  The cat sees an opportunity.  He has been waiting for revenge for a long time.  He sees me dragging the dog, figures this is it, I’m gonna kill the dog, And Charcoal lunges for Chelsea as I am dragging her past me.
  Since I am dragging her past me, Chelsea is no longer there when the cat strikes, and he lands on the back of my leg.  No claws, but his teeth have sunk into my calf.  Just as I turn around to see what the fuck, Charcoal jumps off me quickly.  You could tell he was spooked.  He didn’t mean it, and I never blamed him.  The expression on his face was a very obvious, very plain, "Oh, shit!"  He ran off.
  I had a small fang wound in my calf, which didn’t bleed very long.  I thought nothing of it.  So little, in fact, that I’m sure now I never bothered to clean it out.  In the meantime, I went on a float trip with The Storm, some other Domino’s managers, and their respective meteorologic phenomena.
  Brilliantly, I allowed my wound to be exposed to river water for an eight hour stretch.  Hey, it seemed like it was healing.  That’s what that red streak running down my leg means, right?  Right?
  We get back from the float trip, my car gets stolen, and I go back to work.  That week, I feel weak, and my leg hurts alot.  Frequently I sit down.  By Friday, two weeks since the bite, it really, really hurts, and I’m having trouble walking.  I decide now would be as good a time as any to go to the doctor.
  Dr Yap is retired now, but he was a great doctor, a great guy.  Korean, he was in a MASH unit during the Korean war.  He saw me, he was disgusted with me that I had waited so long.  He wanted to send me to the hospital, and I. . .just didn’t think it was that serious.  Just give a shot, some antibiotics.  I’ll be fine.  He gives me one shot, then another.  Then tells me to hold still, or he’ll have one of the nurses circumcise me.  They were all hot, so it would have been fun to play show and tell, but I told him, "Doc, I was born in Jewish Hospital."  It was true, and he got a kick out of that.
  So he let me go, after giving me several shots that almost knocked me out, and trying once more to convince me to go to the hospital.  Whatever.  Honestly, what does he know?
  I get home, and The Storm is waiting on the front porch.  So is my dad.  Dr Yap called The Storm, and she in turned called my dad, and they ambushed me, and my dad TOOK me to the hospital.
  I spent a week on the inside.  It was brutal.  It changes you, it makes you hard.  But I made some friends on the inside.  Friends who had friends. . . . .on the outside.  I called my supervisor, and I called my MIT.  I was managing the Blackjack Domino’s, and this was still under the 30-minute guarantee, by the way.
  Gina Meredith.  Nice girl, bad acne, super religious, and slow on the pizza making.  Managing a Domino’s is 90% pie making.  She was going to be in charge while I was in the hospital.  Her big chance to shine.
  I called several times, made sure they got food orders right, payroll taken care of, scheduling done, things like that.  Minor crises all under control.  I lay around and watched TV, had an IV in me.  I could have done this at work.
  It was funny though, when I got out, and came back to work, everyone was thrilled to have me back, and Gina gave me a hug, and she was almost sobbing.  She let me know she had a new respect for my position as manager.  Vindication, after getting shit from her, thinking I’m not doing anything.  It’s called managing, and it’s a little more subtle than making a pizza.
.. . . . .
 
  And what of the animals?  Well, we had Charcoal for a while longer, but he ran off one day and we never did see him again.  Chelsea’s owners came and got her after a about a month and a half.  The dude also made off with my bong, as well.  I hadn’t used it in years, had no intention of using it, and was going to maybe sell it to them.  I let them try it out, and never saw them again.  My three-foot bong.
  There’s a lesson here somewhere, and it completely eludes me.  
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8 Comments »

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  1. Dude you ramble on like a sissy but your stories are so freakin funny!  Tell that hussy of your\’s Kat says hi and tell her King Tom passed away in his sleep 😦  It\’s a sad day on our side of blogland neighborhood.

  2. HI finally made it back here. MSN been giving me troubles with screeen freezing up..anyhoo..glad you and DETROIT are doing good. Nice to hear you are becoming friendly with MAC..I would not want to get on his bad side..well you know what can happen with that…Sounds like you had a very bad case of blood poisoning or something. Serious nasty stuff…I wil have to come back later..too muchto read  right now…  Carol

  3. lol ur such a nut!  I love your writing 🙂
     
    So glad you and K are gettin on so well *grins
     
    Hugs,
    ~S4ssy

  4. *woof*you love me and you know it. quit trying to be a hard ass. *woof*you even use your \’dog voice\’ with me.*woof*now, I just gotta find a way to get you to share your grub with me.*woof*Mommmy does!*arf*love ya new daddy!

  5. Great story!
    I am not a big animal person. My brother has a cat, first time I am living with a cat.
    Its not bad..except for the cat hair, and when they cough up a hairball..and when the litter has to be changed and…ok, I am still not an animal person.
    Say Hi to Detroit  for me 🙂

  6. I had a three legged dog named Bubba….great fucking dog. R.I.P. Bubba 
     
    I\’d have purchased your 3ft bong…all you had to do was ask….geez. 😛
     
    Peace,
    Melissa

  7. hello stupid happy in love guy. happy for you and happy you still remember me 🙂

  8. You guys own your dog?
     
    How you do that?  Quick, tell me while Wa-ya\’s not in the room!  So far (he\’s 51/2 months old) he\’s made it very clear to Greg and I that he owns us!
     
    and omg!  You COMMUTE!  <SHUDDER>  How you do that?  I can\’t even make it to Safeway and I\’ve been trying for 3 days! 
     
    Seriously, love your off the cuff realism–Write on!


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