Still more Blog about that damn dog

The next morning when I returned to pay the bill and instruct the vet to dispose of the remains I was greeted with a shock.  There in a small cage was Obie, drip still attached and a huge bandage around his neck. Obie saw me and wagged his entire body with delight.  “Hey, Boss – we really showed them black demons a thing or two”. He smiled, wagged “C’mon get me outta here, I’m starving”.

The dog was irrepressible, I took him home and he wolfed down a huge breakfast.  The meal of warriors.  He then went to the fence and issued a stern warning to Caesar and Brutus.  Except what came out was hardly a bark, it was more a pathetic cough.  More like a squeak. What Obie lost in bark, he made up for in territory marker.  He peed so much on the gap in the fence that it dripped and it reeked.  “Don’t come in here” it screamed at the Rotties.  “Don’t come near, you are completely surrounded by an army of rat-goats and you will suffer”.

And so as the days passed Obie marched and then strutted the boundary.  He hurled rather squeaked abuse across the fence.  “Come on you cowards” He would stand at the gap.  “I have you surrounded, come out and fight you gutless hyenas”.

Caesar and Brutus were confined to the indoors by Window Witch, more for Obie’s safety.  But try and explain that to a strutting, squeaking goat-thingie.  He wanted revenge. I was once told that dogs take on the characteristics of their owners.  Or is it the other way round?  Whatever.  Often master and dog became close in mannerism and look.  That was true of Window Witch and her Rottweilers.  Aggressive, unfriendly, aggressive.

Along our street is a golf course, and it is always a delight to take Obie for a walk.  Whatever he does to my pillow and to my possessions in secret, it is a joy to see The Great Jedi in full flight out in the open. One of the Universe’s great pleasures.

Nothing escaped his attention.  A flock of ibis are sent scattering, loudly complaining as the white streak tears through the crowd.  Attendants on huge mowers are fair game too.  Obie will vent his pathetic, white ball of fuzzy fur on a huge grinding machine. Only to return “Hey Boss, scared the bejarrahs out of that son-of-a-bitch, hey”.

Then he noticed the tree.  “Oh Boy, here’s trouble, Boss”.  He stood frozen and stared.  No doubt Caesar and Brutus had been this way and marked out some territory.  Any self-respecting male canine would. “Treachery” Obie squeaked out in the loudest cough he could muster.  He, The Master of the Dog Universe was not going to stand for this.  So he prepared himself to obliterate such a show of insubordination. There was a problem.  The Rotties were at least a head and hand taller than he, so he really had to lift his leg to make any impression. I mean really lift.

“Watch me, Boss.  Just watch me” Obie tried to lift his leg half way up the tree and let go with his endless stream of territory marker. On three legs at an awkward, comical angle, hind leg pointed skyward Obie attempted to wipe out all insubordination from those underling mongrels.

“Oh shit…”

Obie tumbled and fell in a spray of pee all over himself.  Still undaunted he shook himself in a mist of urine and wagged.  “That went well” he smiled up at me, blinking. The tree stood its ground, silently witnessing one of the most unusual creatures in its eighty year life. Obie trotted off home and smelt like a heard of wildebeest.

More to follow…

About Tom Cottrell

Tom is a struggling author, pilgrim and citizen of Planet Earth.
Gallery | This entry was posted in The Hell of it and other essays and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Still more Blog about that damn dog

  1. Pingback: More Blog about that dog | Tom Cottrell

  2. Pingback: More Blog about that dog | Redemption Rehabilitation Reinvention

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