Yesterday the Mooks had a friend over—not a bad person, as persons go—and Mook A thought it might be nice to go for a walk with me and his friend.
I don't know what he had in mind—maybe some nice little sylvan thing with picnics in the park and the sun shining over a scene of peace and joy—but I know what I had in mind: staking out my territory.
At first it was the same-old-same-old of "sit" and "heel" and "short leash" and "behave." Leashes mean nothing to me. They're short, they're long, I don't give a shit; I run. Keep up. Mook A wasn't keeping up and fell on a patch of ice and nearly broke his neck. Sadly it was only nearly.
The Mook was trying to be nice about it, with his friend looking on, but I could hear that he was getting pissed at me as we went into the park. Being a Sunday, the park was dog heaven. Being winter/spring, the park was a sea of water, mud and the emergence of piles of dog shit released from their coats of snow. It was beautiful! I was running all over the place! Burying my nose in a pile of shit here, running over to a pile of garbage there, dancing in the mud, splashing in the water.
But then there were the other dogs. I don't know why the humans don't get that I'm not fucking around. This is my park and those other dogs are guests in it if I feel like having them there. With the constant tugging on my leash and yanking on my collar, I didn't feel like having them there. Some couple came up to us with some black pile of fur on a leash and after sniffing him out for a bit, I thought it might be wiser to take the hair-pile's throat out. The Mook yanked me back so hard I went flying and he started apologizing to the other couple saying, "We just got him and we're still learning about his temperament." What an submissive, ingratiating asshole he is sometimes. Then there were the squirrels. There was one tree-rat who was begging to get shredded and I went after it and the Mook pulled me back. I went mental. Keeping me from a squirrel is just wrong and I just kept yanking and yanking and screaming and barking and because I was being strangled it looked and sounded like murder in the park.
Feeling self-conscious about how he was treating me, we left the park and went to Starbuck's and the lady went in for coffee while I sat outside with the Mook. Dogs everywhere and they all wanted to get in my fucking face. What is it about house dogs and this insane need to be warm and fuzzy. Don't they know anything about territory? Were they all lobotomized? A lab came up to me and the Mook pulled me back. The lab's owner said, "He's very gentle." Listen, you silly bitch, your blond ass-kisser might be gentle, I am not—back off! She didn't so I had to rip off the lab's nose...or try to because once again I went flying back on that fucking leash. The Mook, now, was just one big ball of nervous and attentive energy.
Just before the lady came back with the coffee, a guy with a pug came over. This was one butt-ugly dog and it didn't help that his tongue was hanging out of the side of its mouth, lashing about like some fish he had caught and was trying desperately to hold to. This wasn't so much about invading my territory as about get that arsehole passing off as a face away from me. The good thing about pugs? Being small they get it. A snarl from my guts did the trick.
When the lady came out with coffee (nothing for me...they never think I might like something) we went straight home. "That was fun!" the Mook said sarcastically and for the last bit of the walk he was yelling, "Heel!" the whole way.
As if.
After a walk like that you need your rest.
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