I’ve got this rotten dog I picked up from the pound. This dog will destroy everything you hold dear, everything of beauty. He trashed my front yard, digging holes, churning the earth into a lunar landscape. I planted some flowers.
He dug them up.
I planted grass. He dug craters in it.
I replant them.
It’s a contest of wills.
This dog is smart. He knows I hold those flowers in esteem.
Whenever anyone passes by the fence in the front yard, the dog charges and barks, launches himself through the air and hits the fence. He’s knocking the fence down. I got a note from the police department warning me about my dog and my flimsy fence.
He chewed my war trophy, a North Korean propaganda leaflet dropped on me by a MIG.
I want to get rid of him. I’d like to take him out in back, line him up against a wall, and execute him with a small pistol. No blindfold. I’ll give him a cigarette first. But no turning his back to me. Right between the eyes.
This dog has beady, criminal eyes.
He looks like a wild African dingo dog, one of those mongrel beasts with pointy ears that run in packs and rip to shreds anything standing with warm blood.
Why did I buy this dog? Because my kid wanted to buy something. An impulse. To be the good dad, I went along. I didn’t feel like objecting and the inevitable arguing afterwards. I’m paying the price.
Execution is too good for him. I’d like to drive this dog 100 miles away, kick him out of the car near an amusement park, and take off. But knowing this dog as I do, he’ll show up back here……with three stray dogs.
By the way. Did you know? I’m the anti-Christ to truckers on the highway.
I drive 55 mph in the slow lane. That’s with the pedal floored. My car won’t go any faster. This trucker pulls up behind and because of me is forced to go the speed limit. He’s mad. He’s so close I can see the word “Kenwood” on his grill almost pressed against my rear window.
I slow up.
The more he tailgates, the slower I go.
He honks his horn. What am I supposed to do, drive in the bike lane? So he can pass?
To hell with him.
This is a contest of wills also.
We’re passing a construction site with twenty Port-O-Sans all lined up, potty to potty, portable toilets. If this were a western, it would be titled, “Showdown at San Puerto.”
I hold my hands off the steering wheel, out to the sides, out the window, indicating to him, “What do you expect me to do jerk?”
He’s up above in the cab somewhere, out of sight, cursing me. I’ll bet his name is Sparky.
Now we’re going only 45 mph. “The more you tailgate, the slower we’ll go. If I speed up in fear, you’d still tailgate me at 65 mph anyway. No fear. Nothing to lose.”
Finally, in rage, he veers to the left and passes me in the fast lane, flipping the bird (he has a bumper sticker that reads, “How’s My Driving? Call 1-800-Courtesy-Safety).”