Man's worst enemy
The smell of dog shit ranks up there in the smelly stakes with the smell of sweat that you smell when squashed up against the armpit of an overweight unwashed co-commuter on public transport. It's really that bad.
So for the second time in recent weeks I have had that awful skid under your foot sensation that can only mean one thing – dog shit. If you have deep grooves in the soles of the shoes, it's even worse. Now London has it's fair share of green areas, but none are in very close proximity to my house where a quick wipe on the grass would have helped. It would be fair to say that had a dog been near my soiled shoe, it would have felt the soft leather of my shoe as it was rammed up its anus. Granted, the owner should have pooper-scooped.
Dogs are certainly not this man's best friends. I can unequivocally say that they are my worst enemies. Maybe it was my parents' fault for not allowing me to have the opportunity for liking dogs by banning pets throughout my childhood. But the canine species haven't exactly made an effort to win me over.
A neighbour of mine had a particularly vicious heel-snapper of a dog. Cycling by their house was a traumatic experience for a 10 year old. Falling off the bike would have meant a certain mauling. This was one mean son of a bitch. Drool didn't drop off his jaw the way it does from a docile old person. No, it was usually spat between its front teeth. Luckily, I never did receive that mauling when I was a kid. It was to come 11 years later.
See, sheepdogs don't belong in US cities. Especially ones that are tied to trees all day long. During a J1 summer in the US I became acquainted with a neighbour's dog every morning on my way to work. To demonstrate what he would do if I ever came near him, he would toss a rag doll in the air, grab it between his jaws on the way down and shake it from side to side. This was ample warning not to come within his tether.
One hot morning in July 2001 I was late for my bus into down town Milwaukee. My peripheral vision was blurred owing to my fixation with getting to the bus stop in time. Without fuss or commotion, the bastard crept up behind me and bit down on my right thigh. To add insult to injury, he had my shorts and boxers ripped so that fundament was partially exposed to the severe 10am sun.
When I confronted the owner, an old man of at least 70 years, he blubbed and cried in an effort to get me not to report the incident to the police. I agreed not to press charges but did complain to the housing management company. The owner and his wife were evicted and I was racked with guilt. But only for the five minutes up until I found out that this dog had bitten a child in the past. The owner had sworn that this hadn't happened before.
If I had known this at the time, the dog would have joined the other cuddly-woodly biting mongrels in dog hell. Okay, the owner was probably to blame for this incident too. But he got his come-uppance the scheming old-timer.
Published by Colm.
So for the second time in recent weeks I have had that awful skid under your foot sensation that can only mean one thing – dog shit. If you have deep grooves in the soles of the shoes, it's even worse. Now London has it's fair share of green areas, but none are in very close proximity to my house where a quick wipe on the grass would have helped. It would be fair to say that had a dog been near my soiled shoe, it would have felt the soft leather of my shoe as it was rammed up its anus. Granted, the owner should have pooper-scooped.
Dogs are certainly not this man's best friends. I can unequivocally say that they are my worst enemies. Maybe it was my parents' fault for not allowing me to have the opportunity for liking dogs by banning pets throughout my childhood. But the canine species haven't exactly made an effort to win me over.
A neighbour of mine had a particularly vicious heel-snapper of a dog. Cycling by their house was a traumatic experience for a 10 year old. Falling off the bike would have meant a certain mauling. This was one mean son of a bitch. Drool didn't drop off his jaw the way it does from a docile old person. No, it was usually spat between its front teeth. Luckily, I never did receive that mauling when I was a kid. It was to come 11 years later.
See, sheepdogs don't belong in US cities. Especially ones that are tied to trees all day long. During a J1 summer in the US I became acquainted with a neighbour's dog every morning on my way to work. To demonstrate what he would do if I ever came near him, he would toss a rag doll in the air, grab it between his jaws on the way down and shake it from side to side. This was ample warning not to come within his tether.
One hot morning in July 2001 I was late for my bus into down town Milwaukee. My peripheral vision was blurred owing to my fixation with getting to the bus stop in time. Without fuss or commotion, the bastard crept up behind me and bit down on my right thigh. To add insult to injury, he had my shorts and boxers ripped so that fundament was partially exposed to the severe 10am sun.
When I confronted the owner, an old man of at least 70 years, he blubbed and cried in an effort to get me not to report the incident to the police. I agreed not to press charges but did complain to the housing management company. The owner and his wife were evicted and I was racked with guilt. But only for the five minutes up until I found out that this dog had bitten a child in the past. The owner had sworn that this hadn't happened before.
If I had known this at the time, the dog would have joined the other cuddly-woodly biting mongrels in dog hell. Okay, the owner was probably to blame for this incident too. But he got his come-uppance the scheming old-timer.
Published by Colm.
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