There are some days — not many, but some — when I would really like to strangle my dog. Today, you may be guessing, is one of them.
Here’s the thing: I am an unabashed dog lover. I think dogs are just the best pets ever. When it comes to dogs, I’ve got it as bad as anyone; just love ’em. But I have to say, I really prefer big dogs. I don’t seem to have as much affection for little dogs. I don’t know why that is. But the bigger the dog, the more I’m going to love it, and the smaller the dog, the more I’m … not.
However I think my next dog, much as it pains me to say, is going to have to be a small dog. Because the big one I’ve got has almost gotten to be too much for me to manage. I probably won’t end up killing my dog, as crazy as he has driven me, but there’s a chance he might kill me first.
As he almost did — again — this morning on our walk. Do you ever watch the Dog Whisperer? And you know how his mantra is that dogs need exercise, discipline and affection — in that order? That makes pretty good sense, so I’m fairly faithful about walking my dog every day, because I figure a brisk half-hour walk is probably as good for me as it is for him.
The problem is, when we set out each morning, I have to remember that I’m walking Jekyll and Hyde. Which you’d never guess just by looking at him. I mean, look at this:
What an angel. Most of the time he is, honest. But he has a dark side. (And I’m not just talking about the outside.) He has a problem with other dogs, which is that he really, really loathes them, and will go to any lengths to let them know what an affront they are to his very existence. And there will certainly be biting involved.
And when that happens, and I’m on the other end of the leash, I’m usually the one who ends up getting the worst of it. To wit:
This is the result of him taking off after the *evil* sheepdog who had the audacity to be walking down the same street as us, thus dragging me along the asphalt. Which makes this the fourth or fifth time I’ve come home bleeding (with a ruined manicure to boot) from what ought to be a nice bit of morning exercise, with a 75-pound Labrador Retriever who is apparently possessed by demons.
So I turned the air just a tad blue — sorry, neighbors — as I picked myself up off the pavement and tried to stanch the bleeding as best I could, and did my best to remember that he really is a good dog. Most of the time. When he doesn’t require the services of an exorcist.