Just wrote this funny little bit. Hope to make you laugh. Love, C.A.
The Pit Escape
Day to day, my highly anticipated, intense, well-charted walking/exercise routine is based upon possible animal sightings. That's right, I am the wildlife queen clad in sweats, layers, and Sauconys. The locations vary, but on one particular beast-influenced, mapped-out course, I know most of the area dogs: Bismark the Shep, the tan Pit and Boxer behind the clear window, the two Pugs, the yellow Lab and Goldendoodle, and the enormous German Shepherd on the wall, a damn dinosaur-sized demon. Then there's the Dachshund, the Chihuahua, the raggedy farm dog, Argo the debonair Shep, a small, thin Shep who bolted and ravished me once, and that solo, dark, shadowy, somber one behind the dirty window who barks in baritone. Some owners can suck me.
I think I covered most of them. Stay with me...
Anyway, so I've walked this particular route off and on for about eight years. Bismark knows me well...he's black, fierce, and honestly, no one should go near him, but he's probably too old to kill people. Still, I wouldn't take a chance on him; however, like a true Shepherd, when he warmed up to me, his attitude became this: she is mine, all mine, and no one else can be with her. Argo feels the same way; he adores me passionately and refuses to let anyone draw near me; he was furious when the skinny Shepherd ran after me. Yes, Argo saw it all go down, and he was absolutely jealous. The yellow Lab can be mouthy and greedy, but the Goldendoodle is sweet, inquisitive, and anxious. Man, the buffalo-shaped German Shepherd on the wall will kill you, your mom, your baby, me, a harp seal, your puppy. If he could swim, he'd kill a megalodon. I wouldn't go near that one. Give him space, space, space. I've seen him hop down and tear into someone's leg. That guy deserved it, but still. The Dachshund digs me, but his owner's an asshole. The Chihuahua is nasty, but that little guy can jump ten feet; he could pole vault the fuck out of any human.
Now we come to the tan Pit and the Boxer behind the clear front window. For eight years, a few times a week, I've walked by, and there they are, barking at me from behind the glass. Barking their asses off. Barking like they'll never be able to bark again in their lives. I always wave and shout, "Hey guys!" but on the inside, I think, Thank god the window's there, and if it ever breaks, I'm in serious trouble.
Wellllllll...yesterday, I was walking this route, casually striding by that particular window, humming "Weird Fishes," by Radiohead, when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of gold, yellow, tan, and maybe some red flames...yes...that tan Pit Bull (she can bench-press 605 lbs) was running at me full force -- barking like a mad wolf, jaws flapping, eating up ground in an intense blur, a fully focused, inferno of hair, juice, teeth, vomit, piss, bile, shit, razors, swords, mallets, who knew.
I thought, I'm dead, this is it, nothing I can do at all. So, I simply stood there, waiting for the bloody onslaught. Giving up, feeling full surrender take hold, I looked her right in those beady little black eyes. And still she charged, puffing out her massive chest like a bodybuilder crossed with a pin-up queen crossed with Satan.
But as I stared her down, thinking, Bring it on, I noticed something odd, eerie, strange, bizarro, you get the drift. Yes, she was, indeed, charging at me, and she was showing teeth -- that vice of a jaw -- but she wasn't growling at all. Suddenly silent, still intent on her mission -- me -- she began to smile and drool. Faster and faster, she ran, but by the time she stepped on my foot, she wagged her tail like a fat whip.
Her tongue hung out loose, a useless, pinkish-whitish slide, and her paws were covered with gooey mud. Then it came -- she jumped up on me and...I couldn't believe it...began to sloppily kiss me all over. I might add, she had nice breath. Then she pawed at me, kissed me, rubbed her head on me, stopped to pee, dug at the ground, jumped around, then pawed at me some more, licking my jacket.
Laughing, relieved, I petted her furiously, saying, "Hey, baby."
No lie. I swear, out of those eyes or frothy jaws, I heard her mentally speak this: "FINALLY! That damn window! It's been eight years! I finally get to touch you."
I scratched her head, her ears, and I smiled wide, getting choked up. Out loud, I said, "I understand."
As all love fests end, so did this one. Alas, her owner appeared, and it utterly ruined the moment.
I have no idea how or why she finally got loose, but I'll never forget the unbelievable, long-awaited excitement that furry face held inside each crease and tuft of hair, and the utter relief that bled out of her watery eyes when she finally reached me, shocked by her greatest feat. In her dog world, that moment seemed to be nothing less than golden. Eight years. Finally. To her, one morning's escape meant everything.
And I didn't even know her name. Shrug. Wouldn't be the first time.
C.A. MacConnell
