Self-Medicating-by-Cake
My day took a weird turn this evening.
Karl was painting and I figured I could either work on the myriad projects I have that call upon my creative forces – or I could walk. For whatever procrastinative reason, I chose walking.
My next decision was whether to take Spartacus or not.
I’d already walked earlier in the day with both Spart and his mother, so I was inclined to walk alone. This might also give me the opportunity to either journey (if I took a detour) or at the very least sit quietly with my thoughts and perhaps journal.
Well, Spartacus saw me getting ready to leave the house and, like a bacon-seeking missile, he practically put his harness on himself.
I relented. He’s great company. And I’m glad he loves our walks so much. I’m only kidding myself to think I’d write much or get anything creative accomplished on one of my walks if I didn’t take him. So I relented.
A Quick Two Mile Turn ‘Around the Block’
Next thing you know we’re walking past our next door neighbors’ home. (I’m talking literally our next door neighbors.) They have two dogs who are of a breed smaller even than our Boston Terriers. I don’t know if they’re both the same breed, but I think they’re similar. I have a feeling they might be considered ‘mutts,’ but lean toward Shih Tzu or something similar. (That said, I just googled ‘Shih Tzu’ and neither look anything like the, um…creature…pictured.) Nevertheless, suffice it to say, they are a small breed that bark a lot. A lot.
And by that, I mean they bark at our dogs every single day we walk past their house. We actually don’t even need to walk by their house. Many times, when they are let outside to do their business, they make it their business to run up to our property line behind our house and bark in our general direction.
If they are inside their house when we walk by, they jump at the picture window and hurl insults at our dogs. But if they are outside as we walk by? Oh my goodness. The epithets they cast. I am sure they insult Spartacus’s parentage every single time we walk by. I’m sure they wish evil on Sheila. They talk such smack.
Meanwhile, our two just walk by.
Depending upon what is said, though, you can tell that the insults occasionally get under Spartacus’s fur. The hackles rise. He gets a ridge that raises up along his spine that is a huge ‘tell’ that they are directly impugning the reputation of his mother, Sheila, who just happens to be walking beside him. (Usually, anyway.)
But not this afternoon. No. We’d left Sheila home, as I said, because she’d already put in the work of a nice long walk earlier in the day.
Smack Talk Turns Ugly
So Spartacus and I are walking past our neighbors and we realize the psycho dogs next door, who bark at their own shadows and routinely bark smack at us, are outside with their mommy. She’s on the phone.
We humans make eye contact and smile at each other as her dogs go through their usual casting of canine invective and personal insults at Spartacus. They’re both hell bent on picking a fight.
Clearly, Spartacus is not happy; his fur has risen in a ridge along his backbone. He ruff, ruff, ruffs a couple of retorts as we make the edge of the neighbors’ property, and I just urge him to keep walking. That’s how we deal with bullying and baiting.
We’re about 20 feet beyond their house and fence line, along the frontage of the next next door neighbors’ property, when all of a sudden, I see a darting black figure bolting toward Spartacus as he waters a mailbox post.
Sneak Attack
<<Bam!>> All of a sudden, I’m witnessing a bundle of growling, frenetic, chaotic dog energy. Like in a cartoon, they almost resemble a rolling, expletive-laden, bundle of fur. But unlike a cartoon, this is not in any way amusing.
I yell, “NO! No! Get back! Go away! No!” All the while, I’m pulling Spartacus closer by tugging on his leash, and trying to get in between the two, using my foot as a wedge and a cudgel if necessary. Then <<Bam!>> the butterscotch and white one comes hurling in, talking smack the whole way, and lunging at Spartacus.
Somehow, my feet get swept out from under me and I land with a startlingly inglorious thud in the middle of the road. (The thud was definitely not heard round the world but mainly heard in my own head, but still…)
I’d had Spartacus on a fairly short leash as it was, mostly because right where we were walking is extremely dangerous, in terms of cars (and more often pickup trucks) rounding the slight rise and corner there at a much faster clip than the posted 30 m.p.h. Given the short leash, then, I did have some control over Spartacus and was screaming at the other two dogs, “NO!”
When I fell on my ass, I sort of backed off of words and just started ineffectually yelling, “Aaah! Aaah! NO!”
If I Fall In the Middle of the Road, Do I Make a Sound?
Sad to say, I staggered up and went after the dogs again (they were piling on Spartacus as I tried to right my carcass and, despite that, I was worried he would hurt the aggressors. I didn’t want anybody getting hurt). I don’t know what happened next, but damn if I didn’t have my legs swept out from under me again. Ugh.
Thud – onto the macadam once more. Yelling all the while. It was pathetic. And comedic. And the whole scenario can stay that way in my mind’s eye because – thank goodness – nary a car nor a pickup truck came bounding around the corner at that moment. Because had that happened…I’d not be writing this post.
My poor neighbor watched this unfold before her eyes. Turned out she was physically incapable of going after her pups because of a health issue. Worse yet, she and her husband had just replaced a bunch of pickets in their fences and she – we – all thought for sure that their fence was an effective barrier to keep the smack talk from turning physical.
It wasn’t.
The Aftermath
It isn’t a big stretch, then, for you to imagine that, once I picked myself up from the middle of the road a second time (and believe it or not, I think I staggered and fell a third time, but holy cow I’m glad no one had an iPhone handy because it wasn’t pretty), I was ready to just ‘move along.’
After making sure my neighbor had her transgressors under her control once more, I continued on with my 2.2 mile walk. By the time I got home, my hands were still shaking with adrenaline.
First, I checked to make sure that Spartacus hadn’t been hurt (other than a broken nail and what looked like a brush-burn wound on his paw, I gave him an “all clear”). Then, since the adrenaline was still surging throughout my body and I was thus feeling unlike my usual introverted self, I knocked on the neighbors’ door, inquiring if their pups had sustained any wounds. (I thought I’d seen blood on the butterscotch one’s coat). Thankfully, it appears everyone was basically unscathed.
Just by showing up, I was letting my neighbors know, vicariously, that I was ok. The gray-hair from next door who fell in the middle of the road and looked like a turtle flipped helplessly onto her back, but who nevertheless popped up, like the Weeble she was, and declared “I’m OK!” – is, actually, OK.
Weebles Wobble But They Don’t …Well…
I came home from my overture to the neighbors. I made leftover mushroom fajitas. My hands were still shaking from the adrenaline rush, despite my two mile walk.
It was only then that I succumbed to the stress and totally indulged in some self-medicating-by-cake.
A slice or three of raspberry coconut cake from Crossroads Bakery did the trick. Now I’m ready for bed!
Unquestionably, I should not have pigged out on that cake. (My tummy hurts.) But equally indisputably, it was a not entirely inappropriate form of self-medicating, considering the trauma.
All’s well that ends well. I’m just two pounds heavier and maybe facing a scootch of soreness tomorrow from my turtle act. But hey. It could’ve been worse!
(T-938)
