Wednesday, January 11, 2006
White Fang!
Jack London wrote astutely about the savage nature of dogs. In Call of the Wild Curly was viciously attacked and killed by Spitz. His crime? He just wanted to be friends. A dog’s friendship can be fickle to say the least. They can be cunning at times—especially when they are pretending to be man’s best friend. When I was still a teenager my sister deposited Tip, a mean-spirited Chihuahua, with Mom and Dad because Tip like many if not most Chihuahuas did not like children. Tip became the third member of a well-organized pack of dogs. Whitey was a massive mixed mongrel who was the official team leader and there was another smallish mixed breed. Dad had a large garden that was overgrown every winter in knee high wire grass. One day he chanced to observe the trio in action. The two smaller dogs were plowing through grass well over their heads driving rabbits toward Whitey who was laying in wait—waiting for the kill. Another time my wife and I went for a walk in a town where there were no leash laws and soon found ourselves accompanied by first one stray dog and then another until the pack had grown to thirteen by last reckoning. A woman we passed on the street wanted to know if all those dogs were ours. We said no. None of them are ours. Just then a heated fight broke out among the pack. So much for a peaceful little stroll. But dogs are that way. They all seem to be afflicted with attention deficit disorder. One moment they are busy lapping away at your hand and then a stray cat wanders past. Do they continue to lavish you with their affection? No way! They are off to the chase faster than a speeding bullet. I once had a neighbor who had a big St. Bernard by the name of Alfie. Don drove a small BMG (that is an oxymoron because by nature all BMG’s are small). Every morning Don pulled out of his driveway with Alfie in hot pursuit. It was always a question if Don would make it through the intersection before Alfie pounced on the BMG and squashed it like a bug. Alfie never learned the meaning of “Stay!” Once as I walked to a small garden plot that a well-intentioned neighbor had provided for me in his cornfield, I looked up and saw Alfie trailing a few yards behind me. To my horror I realized that he was knocking over Mr. Waller’s corn stalks. I tried to shush Alfie away. It was a disaster. He raced wildly through the cornfield flattening three rows of corn at a time. I spent a whole day repairing the damage. Using a hoe I packed a cone of dirt about a foot high around each trampled stalk. Other than three rows of corn surrounded by mini-volcano cones and a few stalks with bizarre zigzag shapes, Mr. Waller probably never suspected a thing.
Anyone who has ever read Jean Shepherd or seen the Christmas Story knows how Bumpasses’ pack of dogs, all named Red, stormed the Parker household and made off with the Christmas Turkey. Dogs simply do not respect holiday traditions and certainly do not respect turkeys or rabbits—a byproduct of their residual White Fang DNA. During Hurricane Katrina when many dogs were left to shift for themselves, they caused mayhem throughout the city by begetting more puppies. They apparently believe that there is strength in numbers. What would happen if one day the drug dogs at airports instead of sniffing for drugs began to sniff out your choicest loins for a mid-afternoon buffet. All Americans would have to fear for their lower extremities. Don’t think it can’t happen here. Just recently in Freemont, California, a pack of Chihuahuas attacked an officer of the law as he tried to apprehend a suspect. Most cities are already aware of the danger and have passed leash laws to keep these would be terrorists behind fences. What will happen if the country is suddenly confronted with packs of renegade canine corps? What will happen to the American dream if St. Bernards begin to trample the Field of Dreams? Unmitigated Disaster that’s what! Imagine pack of Chihuahuas and Yorkies terrorizing entire neighborhoods. It’s no wonder all athletes fear ankle injuries or attacks. Homeland security would be compelled to banish open-toed shoes. Imagined hordes of Redneck jocks bellowing out off-key chords of “Get along little ‘doggies,’ your misfortune is none of my own,” in the mistaken belief that music will soothe those savage little beasts. It certainly is not a pretty picture. Think White Fang!
Jack London wrote astutely about the savage nature of dogs. In Call of the Wild Curly was viciously attacked and killed by Spitz. His crime? He just wanted to be friends. A dog’s friendship can be fickle to say the least. They can be cunning at times—especially when they are pretending to be man’s best friend. When I was still a teenager my sister deposited Tip, a mean-spirited Chihuahua, with Mom and Dad because Tip like many if not most Chihuahuas did not like children. Tip became the third member of a well-organized pack of dogs. Whitey was a massive mixed mongrel who was the official team leader and there was another smallish mixed breed. Dad had a large garden that was overgrown every winter in knee high wire grass. One day he chanced to observe the trio in action. The two smaller dogs were plowing through grass well over their heads driving rabbits toward Whitey who was laying in wait—waiting for the kill. Another time my wife and I went for a walk in a town where there were no leash laws and soon found ourselves accompanied by first one stray dog and then another until the pack had grown to thirteen by last reckoning. A woman we passed on the street wanted to know if all those dogs were ours. We said no. None of them are ours. Just then a heated fight broke out among the pack. So much for a peaceful little stroll. But dogs are that way. They all seem to be afflicted with attention deficit disorder. One moment they are busy lapping away at your hand and then a stray cat wanders past. Do they continue to lavish you with their affection? No way! They are off to the chase faster than a speeding bullet. I once had a neighbor who had a big St. Bernard by the name of Alfie. Don drove a small BMG (that is an oxymoron because by nature all BMG’s are small). Every morning Don pulled out of his driveway with Alfie in hot pursuit. It was always a question if Don would make it through the intersection before Alfie pounced on the BMG and squashed it like a bug. Alfie never learned the meaning of “Stay!” Once as I walked to a small garden plot that a well-intentioned neighbor had provided for me in his cornfield, I looked up and saw Alfie trailing a few yards behind me. To my horror I realized that he was knocking over Mr. Waller’s corn stalks. I tried to shush Alfie away. It was a disaster. He raced wildly through the cornfield flattening three rows of corn at a time. I spent a whole day repairing the damage. Using a hoe I packed a cone of dirt about a foot high around each trampled stalk. Other than three rows of corn surrounded by mini-volcano cones and a few stalks with bizarre zigzag shapes, Mr. Waller probably never suspected a thing.
Anyone who has ever read Jean Shepherd or seen the Christmas Story knows how Bumpasses’ pack of dogs, all named Red, stormed the Parker household and made off with the Christmas Turkey. Dogs simply do not respect holiday traditions and certainly do not respect turkeys or rabbits—a byproduct of their residual White Fang DNA. During Hurricane Katrina when many dogs were left to shift for themselves, they caused mayhem throughout the city by begetting more puppies. They apparently believe that there is strength in numbers. What would happen if one day the drug dogs at airports instead of sniffing for drugs began to sniff out your choicest loins for a mid-afternoon buffet. All Americans would have to fear for their lower extremities. Don’t think it can’t happen here. Just recently in Freemont, California, a pack of Chihuahuas attacked an officer of the law as he tried to apprehend a suspect. Most cities are already aware of the danger and have passed leash laws to keep these would be terrorists behind fences. What will happen if the country is suddenly confronted with packs of renegade canine corps? What will happen to the American dream if St. Bernards begin to trample the Field of Dreams? Unmitigated Disaster that’s what! Imagine pack of Chihuahuas and Yorkies terrorizing entire neighborhoods. It’s no wonder all athletes fear ankle injuries or attacks. Homeland security would be compelled to banish open-toed shoes. Imagined hordes of Redneck jocks bellowing out off-key chords of “Get along little ‘doggies,’ your misfortune is none of my own,” in the mistaken belief that music will soothe those savage little beasts. It certainly is not a pretty picture. Think White Fang!
