Don’t call me a hater, I’m true dog lover.
My own pooch, my golden boy Maalik, provides a constant source of love and affection. He brings me much joy, and petting him is like meditation (that is, when he hasn’t rolled in something repulsive and vile). He lays beside me all day as I write, and in turn, is my first audience as I read my work aloud. (He thinks everything I write is brilliant by the way).
It isn’t just my own dog that brings me pleasure either. There’s a little Cairn Terrier (think Wizard of Oz) down the street that would warm the heart of even the harshest grump. I know a handful of good ol’ Heinz 57 dogs that are as sweet as they come. I love big dogs too – give me a Saint Bernard, a Great Dane, a Rottweiler, or a Bull Mastiff – all big slobbery beasts who tend to be gentle giants to boot.
Of course, my favourite is the Golden Retriever, because their disposition is exactly the type of being I want to be around. Calm, loving, quiet, friendly, ready to play at any given moment, but always welcoming a good snooze. I wish all the people I am around were like that too.
Which brings me to my point. Enter the beast, or the breed of beast – the German Shepard. What is it with these dogs? My dog has only been bit twice and both times it was German Shepards. Don’t get me wrong, I WANT to like this breed of dog – I think they’re quite majestic looking and are smart as a whip, so what’s not to like right? Wrong – they are the bully on the playground, which I didn’t like in grade school, and I don’t like now.
Our daily walks are calm and serene. The only source of stress in the entire hour is the few minutes we walk past a neighbour’s house who owns a German Shepard. That dog goes nuts, barking, running along the fence, jumping up against the chain link with a loud clank and crash that serves as our warning to move it along. I’m waiting for the day that the dog figures out that he can jump the fence with ease, and attack us both at his leisure.
Quite disturbing that out here in the boonies, it’s not the bears, wolves, coyotes, fishers, or (reported) cougars that I fear will eat my face off. It’s the domestic pet down the road. Geesh.
I guess it could be worse. I could live in neighbourhood instead of farming country and have to listen to the darn thing bark his head off all the time. And I guess if I’m looking for a silver lining, his tyrannical display does tend to invigorate my step, which gets my heart rate up, which pumps the blood to my brain so that I can come home and write something wonderful.
I guess I could stretch that silver lining that far…