I Will Never, Ever, Ever, Live This Down

The Engineer was helping me plant some pampas grass that a client heaved out of her trunk last week, a couple of clumps with their roots anchored in wads of dirt weighing about thirty pounds each. People bring me stuff like this on a whim. I was just stomping the soil down tight when, out of the rays of the dropping sun, a smallish glossy-black-curly-bouncy terrier-ish dog came hurtling down the sidewalk from inside the neighborhood, headed straight for the intersection of my street with a four-lane divided. A blonde Norman Rockwell eight-year-old, pounding after him but hopelessly outclassed, was shouting an unintelligible name; the dog, tasting freedom, was not about to pay any notice. Fate intervened in the form of a lamp-post. It wasn’t a hydrant but it was good enough for a sniff.

Small dog. I am not really afraid of small dogs. I jumped forward, extended my arms and called “C’mere, doggie!” Anything new is interesting; he bounded over and I hoisted him up just as the little girl reached us.

“Your little doggie get away from you?” I said. “Here we go.” She gathered him up, not all that gracefully. “Hand under his little butt, then he won’t get loose as easy.”

Halfway down the block a Momly figure waved to me. I waved back.

“I just,” I said in dawning shock to the Engineer as we pruned the thyme, “caught a runaway dog. For a little girl. Do not let this get out into the community.”

As he left a little while ago he spotted an envelope sitting on top of my mailbox.

Envelope

Card

Damning Testimony

Kerwin

I mean, I can’t stand children. Or dogs. And he would have been okay, the juvenile canine doofus.

I am so screwed.

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10 thoughts on “I Will Never, Ever, Ever, Live This Down

  1. You have totally lost your credibility. And I bet you are going to keep that cutsie card. I was so hoping that the story would end with a garbage truck flattening the dog and you laughing as the kid has hysterics and his mother calls in crisis counsellors.

  2. In my defense, the dog didn’t bark once. The barking is guaranteed to tear it for me. A dog’s bark to me is the equivalent of being hit in the ear with a mallet and wedge; it’s a hostile, mean sound that has only one message for me, “I am going to tear out chunks of your flesh with my ugly yellow teeth.” But he didn’t make a sound. I wouldn’t have been able to come near him if he did.

    I can always cultivate the slight mystery of the Witch Lady at the corner, with my garden full of odd smelling herbs and glass doodads.

  3. Your reputation is shot now.

    “I can always cultivate the slight mystery of the Witch Lady at the corner, with my garden full of odd smelling herbs and glass doodads.”

    Get more cats!

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