Monday, August 25, 2008 / current mood: jedi
In this wonderful land of ocean and beach and sandy goodness, of dust and garbage sculptures, of subletting from cockroaches and of no traffic laws of any kind depending on the day, the cop and the mood he is in, there are dogs. This seedy, dark underworld of dogs. Tons and tons of crazy, hungry, cracked-out, psycho, scrawny, scraggly, parched, wild, dirty, mangy, barking, scary, grodey, whiney packs of Mexican dogs. Everywhere you go, whether it be a paved road, a dirt road or a dirt covered paved road, there will be a pack of dogs trying to eat your car.
Now my history with dogs has been harrowing, at best. Your little 5-year-old head in a German Shepherd's mouth will not salvage an already shaky relationship. I remember being wrapped up in a blanket and held in my mom’s arms in the front yard of our house one evening. I do think fireworks were involved which would explain why we were all standing outside in the cold at night and caused the hell beast to freak out in the first place. All I know is, I'm watching pretty sparkly things explode in the sky one second, and the next my head is being munched on by a big scary spawn of Satan.
Now, I'm not sure exactly how it all went down or how long it actually took, but somehow my dad and my uncle ran INSIDE to grab ... things, to get the dog off of the wife and kid outside. Instead of running to the wife and kid and trying to pull the crazed dog off of us. So the dog attacks and the men run inside. In what seemed like a millisecond later the dog, my mom and I are suddenly covered in white foam, head to toe. It is also now all over the front yard and the dog is no longer feasting upon my skull but rather whimpering away looking like a giant cotton ball with legs.
Apparently, these were the weapons retrieved from the house to use as instruments in the harrowing rescue: Uncle Mike grabbed a shotgun and Dad, the fire extinguisher. There are a few things I will never know or understand about this incident. Like why a fire extinguisher is the first thing that pops into my fathers head when his wife and daughter are being attacked in the front yard by a devil dog. Or why my dad had enough time to spray us, the front yard and the entire population of hell hounds in our neighborhood with fire foam before my uncle got a single shot off? What was he doing with the shotgun this whole time? And why was I covered with foam and not splattered evil doggy parts?
The next morning Dad comes inside from retrieving the paper with such a look of satisfaction on his face. Apparently he had just watched the neighbors across the street hosing off their German Shepherd in their front yard.
Needless to say, I'm scared shitless of dogs. Especially big toothy dogs. Especially big toothy packs of crazy dogs chasing my car.
So back in Mexico, Scott decides he is going to help me overcome my fear of dogs by telling me to get out of the safety of my car and chase after the crazed pack of Latin dogs and scream bloody hell at them. He stares at me expectantly after he tells me this little nugget of a helpful suggestion and I can only look at him as though he had just sprouted an extra butt cheek on his neck or absurdly asked me the circumference of a baseball in the middle of discussing what we should eat for dinner.
So he gets out of the car and proceeds to chase and scream at the dogs and they do run away. This idiocy actually works. Now I'm all not afraid of those mangy mutts. I'm starting to feel sort of bad for them because nobody loves them. They don't even have a humane society down here to humanely put them out of their misery. They just get to hop around on broken and missing limbs chasing after me until I get out and chase them away. How weird is it, though, that they will not chase me but they will chase my car.
In this wonderful land of ocean and beach and sandy goodness, of dust and garbage sculptures, of subletting from cockroaches and of no traffic laws of any kind depending on the day, the cop and the mood he is in, there are dogs. This seedy, dark underworld of dogs. Tons and tons of crazy, hungry, cracked-out, psycho, scrawny, scraggly, parched, wild, dirty, mangy, barking, scary, grodey, whiney packs of Mexican dogs. Everywhere you go, whether it be a paved road, a dirt road or a dirt covered paved road, there will be a pack of dogs trying to eat your car.
Now my history with dogs has been harrowing, at best. Your little 5-year-old head in a German Shepherd's mouth will not salvage an already shaky relationship. I remember being wrapped up in a blanket and held in my mom’s arms in the front yard of our house one evening. I do think fireworks were involved which would explain why we were all standing outside in the cold at night and caused the hell beast to freak out in the first place. All I know is, I'm watching pretty sparkly things explode in the sky one second, and the next my head is being munched on by a big scary spawn of Satan.
Now, I'm not sure exactly how it all went down or how long it actually took, but somehow my dad and my uncle ran INSIDE to grab ... things, to get the dog off of the wife and kid outside. Instead of running to the wife and kid and trying to pull the crazed dog off of us. So the dog attacks and the men run inside. In what seemed like a millisecond later the dog, my mom and I are suddenly covered in white foam, head to toe. It is also now all over the front yard and the dog is no longer feasting upon my skull but rather whimpering away looking like a giant cotton ball with legs.
Apparently, these were the weapons retrieved from the house to use as instruments in the harrowing rescue: Uncle Mike grabbed a shotgun and Dad, the fire extinguisher. There are a few things I will never know or understand about this incident. Like why a fire extinguisher is the first thing that pops into my fathers head when his wife and daughter are being attacked in the front yard by a devil dog. Or why my dad had enough time to spray us, the front yard and the entire population of hell hounds in our neighborhood with fire foam before my uncle got a single shot off? What was he doing with the shotgun this whole time? And why was I covered with foam and not splattered evil doggy parts?
The next morning Dad comes inside from retrieving the paper with such a look of satisfaction on his face. Apparently he had just watched the neighbors across the street hosing off their German Shepherd in their front yard.
Needless to say, I'm scared shitless of dogs. Especially big toothy dogs. Especially big toothy packs of crazy dogs chasing my car.
So back in Mexico, Scott decides he is going to help me overcome my fear of dogs by telling me to get out of the safety of my car and chase after the crazed pack of Latin dogs and scream bloody hell at them. He stares at me expectantly after he tells me this little nugget of a helpful suggestion and I can only look at him as though he had just sprouted an extra butt cheek on his neck or absurdly asked me the circumference of a baseball in the middle of discussing what we should eat for dinner.
So he gets out of the car and proceeds to chase and scream at the dogs and they do run away. This idiocy actually works. Now I'm all not afraid of those mangy mutts. I'm starting to feel sort of bad for them because nobody loves them. They don't even have a humane society down here to humanely put them out of their misery. They just get to hop around on broken and missing limbs chasing after me until I get out and chase them away. How weird is it, though, that they will not chase me but they will chase my car.
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