The vicious dog problem
What is it with people and their vicious pets? I was accompanying a friend, and trying to sip my tea, a proper tea served in a cup and saucer, when the snarling, vicious dog made its appearance. This canine had all the charm of the demon of constipation.
The owner was a proper Toronto belle; she served tea with a tea pot, tea cups, saucers for the cups, and tiny porcelain pots for creme, sugar, and milk. The spoons were tiny, silver, and proper. If a man had such gear, you would say he is a fag; but a woman with such kitchen gear speaks of good breeding, a proper education in the arts, and a chaste disposition that only lasts until her clothes are removed. Where, from what Hell, had this woman found and nurtured this snarling, foaming at the mouth, ambushing attack rodent in a dogs body? I wondered as the beasts jaws were unlocked from my companions toes and the squirming bundle of aggression banished to the frilly pillow and wicker basket that only a person blinded from love would lavish on such a serial killer on four legs.
Pookie, apparently, came from an abused home. Pookie was a rescue dog. I was told not to make eye contact with Pookie. Pookie lay on his royal purple pillow and growled. Poor Pookie. Pookie was a victim. We should all forgive his biting, snarling, and vicious nature because someone said Pookie was a victim. Do not make eye contact with Pookie. Pookie still growled at me. Pookie leaped out of his princely bed and scurried over to where I was sitting, drinking tea, and sank his teeth into my running shoes. I did not feel a thing, but it was a testament to how stupid an attacker Pookie was. I am big; he is small. And it spoke to the depth of feeling a Toronto belle can have for an unredeemable fallen creature as Pookie, the vicious dog. I asked the belle, after the slavering jaws had been removed from my foot, if she had every bleached her hair blonde. I also wondered why Pookie had never crossed paths with a real aggressor, one that would teach him to consider a twenty to one weigh advantage, access to weapons, and superior intellect good reasons to park his teeth in his mouth, rather than rush off his velvet throne to get drool on the trolls footwear.
Pookie maintained his aggression for every minute that I drank my first cup of tea and nibbled my first cookie. The Toronto belle told the heart wrenching story of the care and expense she had gone to to reform dear Pookie. There were dog behaviorists, dog toys, and dog drugs. Pookie had responded to some a little, and to most, not at all. Apparently, Pookie had space issues. Pookie was just always going to be vicious, snapping, and growling at life. Too bad he was not a primate: he could justify man years of social workers pensions in a crusade, er, jihad, to make him into something he could never be: normal. Oh well. I was filled with caring; I am Fenris Badwulf, after all.
The hostess and my companion (I admit it: my girlfriend) retired to some other room to gush over girl stuff. I was left alone with Pookie, who had, exhausted with his hour of slavering hate, had fallen asleep. Why? Had not cruel reality taught this gang banger in dogs clothing that whitey is not to be trusted? Pookie snored on his princely purple cushion. I wondered to myself what a caring person would do, inspired on this the Day of the Werewolf (according to the followers of Set, the Snake God). I tiptoed into the kitchen, to fetch myself another cup of tea (and gobble down a fist full of cookies in honor of the deity of the day) when I stumbled upon the answer to my prayers: a clothes peg. Using my superior commando skills (my father was a British Paratrooper who appreciated a decent cup of tea) I crept up upon Pookie and snapped the clothes peg upon a fold of skin right on his back (above the spine) right where his snapping jaws could not quite reach. Pookie woke up and whirled around like a dervish (wog, my Dad called them), full of his accustomed anger. It was funny. His mistress thought this was just his usual anti social behavior and did not come out to investigate. For several amusing moments dear Pookie spun and snapped at the clothes peg. I sipped tea. I care.
My girlfriend came out for a moment to inform me that she and the Toronto belle would be busy for many more minutes as they were doing some girl thing. I was to be quiet and drink tea and amuse myself. Pookie had fallen back asleep after licking at the spot on his back. I had retrieved my clothes peg of retribution and pondered further spiritual exercises to acquaint Pookie with the Ultimate Process of Digestion. I hit upon a solution: I covered sweet, vicious Pookie with a blanket, overlaid with a pillow. Pookie woke up in the utter darkness, with a weight upon him (that should have been his consciousness) similar to that one feels when swallowed by a snake. He growled and snapped in his usual fashion, but muffled and suppressed. I could finally enjoy his aggression, his struggles to escape to where there is light, his spiritual journey. I sipped my tea. I timed the struggle. All was over by the time when the Toronto belle and my companion returned to the living room. Pookie had endured the ultimate darkness, freed himself, and fallen asleep again.
I have visited many times with the Toronto belle. No behavioral changes have occurred in Pookie. He is vicious, he growls, and he attacks things larger, stronger, better armed, and more intelligent than himself. When the Toronto belle is not in the room, he does retreat to his princely bed; he only attacks in her presence. I never wear sandals when I visit, of course. Nobody likes a vicious dog; it is only the good friendship we have for the Toronto belle that stops her many friends and visitors from lynching Pookie like the dog sized N-person that he is. Since nothing good can temper the foul nature of the dog, then the opposite is employed: at least someone can get a laugh. When I visit Pookie I am often told to feed him, to check his bowl of food, to dote treats upon him. He is a metaphor this Pookie: his vicious self is the celebrated N-person who spends our confiscated income. Instead of feeding him, I un feed him: I take his kibble and pour it back in the bag. Pookie is on a diet; the Toronto belle is pleased he is eating his food pellets. For treats, he gets canine versions of fried chicken and watermelon. When ordered to give him rewards, I flush, hide, or short change the pint sized N-person in dogs clothing. His Toronto belle is pleased, as pleased as a school board trustee. Pookie continues his eternal, constant course of vicious, except that he is wary and quiet in my caring presence.
One day, the Toronto belle will grow tired of her constant companion of aggression. She will find a man, a boy friend, a lover, who will find a final solution to the problem that is Pookie. Pookie will run away, right into a knap sack, right into the dumpster on garbage day. Perhaps Pookie will eat too much chocolate, or get into the anti freeze. His welfare state is dependent upon the innocent love the Toronto belle, and being innocent, she is unaware of the darker forces of Digestion that have a love of order and do not tolerate having their toes bitten while they sleep. So too with other problem pets like Pookie.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.