By W.R. Jones
The face of an angel, instrument of the devil. About 10PM Mango was hiding under the bed with my wife fearful of trying to get him out. He was growling and had bitten her in the past. I, having watched not one, but several episodes of Dog Whisperer, knew how to handle this. I told my wife she had to be the pack leader. I also said something to the effect that I was annoyed at being bothered and was only going to show her once how to take charge.
I kneeled down and told Mango in my pack leader voice to get out from under the bed. When he neither replied nor complied I stuck a forceful pack leader arm in there to drag him out by the collar.
Ow, Ow, Ow! You little ASSHOLE, you bit me! I retracted my arm in a very swift pack follower motion. He came out and looked at me – I could read his doggy mind (a skill picked up from watching Dog Whisperer). He was thinking, “Oh really, was that your finger? I thought it was that cold greasy pork rib you gave me. My bad.”
The following verbatim quotes will give you a glimpse of the hierarchy in our house. My wife, “You are bleeding.” Me, “I know, call the ambulance.” Her, “Don’t get blood on Mango. It is too late to give him a bath; he is all stressed out and needs his sleep. And, don’t get blood on the carpet either. I’m going to bed, goodnight. Oh, and thanks for getting Mango out, you are really quite the dog handler.”
A week passes and I’m in the bathroom one morning getting ready for work. I woke up jackjawed at the world. I’m not getting enough sleep because of that dog. He barks when my brother-in-law comes in at midnight, then at 3AM he starts with the paw to the face and soft (considerate) barking. This is to wake me up to carry him down to use his facilities. You can’t ignore him. If you do you are very apt to find he has left a pile on your pillow. He will sit at the foot of the bed with his devil dog eyes glowing – “told you I had to go.”
So I’m in the bathroom pissed when I glanced at myself in the mirror; my stomach plummeted straight down when I saw the white foam. I screamed at my wife, “OH MY GOD, LOCK THE BATHROOM DOOR. I”VE GOT RABIES, I MIGHT BITE YOU.”
Later, I got hungry so I asked her to make me some breakfast. “How can I feed you with the door locked?” she asked. “Here, use this bowl to slide some oatmeal under the door.” Material science was one of my weaker subjects theoretically speaking. But here is a practical tip I learned. If you push hard enough to get that ceramic bowl under the door, it will break. At this point I was on the floor crying into a towel at the thought of losing me.
I looked into the mirror to say farewell to myself when, low and behold, no foam. For Christ’s sake, it was dribbled toothpaste not rabies.
I’m going to live. Here you can picture an old man jumping HIGH into the air clicking his heels together. Fast forward past the next part where he is sitting on the bathtub edge holding his injured foot. “HONEY – come unlock the door, I don’t have rabies, I’m OK” Her, “No.” “Why not?” Her, “You called my dog an asshole.”
I once worked for a wealthy man who lived in a large house with a large yard. He would describe the distance of his front lawn from the porch to the street as a full 9 iron.
I no longer get Mango out from under the bed by hand. However, it is not a full 9 iron, just a little chip shot.