Cursed Tongue: Snookie’s Avenger

Posted by CursedTongue on September 20, 2007

Scroungy Coyote likes other dogs, but around strange dogs she’s as nervous as a horse in a glue factory. She’s a pretty big girl at 75 pounds. But the dogs that seem to bother her the most are of the teacup variety. I like to think that she mistakes them for cats, but I their beady black eyes, yipping and tiny sharp teeth disturb her.

She and I are often confronted with a free-range dog, on our twice-daily walks. Frequently, these aren’t mangy mutts that have been living off of the Chick-Fil-A dumpster buffet, but well-fed dogs, supposedly under the care of a nearby responsible adult. These dogs usually make a beeline for Coyote, while I pray she doesn’t decide that she needs to practice the art of the Shaolin Fang on her new friend.

The free-range dog will simply follow us if I move. So I stay where we are, hoping the supposedly responsible adult to claim their animal sometime before my dog responds with inappropriate behavior. Last Saturday morning, a teeny tiny white dog with brown spots and no collar or tags, ran up to Scroungy Coyote.

They postured, sniffed, and circled a little. There were no raised hackles, no barking. I looked in the direction that the dog had come from. A woman was pruning a bush in her front yard, her back to us and there was also a young girl who eventually noticed that her precious Snookie-Wookums had wandered off.

She finally arrived, scooped Snookie up in one arm. “You know you’re not supposed to leave the yard,” she scolded mildly. I turned to leave with Coyote and we got about three steps away when the dog reappeared. Snookie began to bark ferociously at Coyote. I told Coyote to “Leave it,” (a command I actually spend time teaching her) and managed to persuade her to sit while I barred the path of the little dog by matching Snookie’s steps.

The dressing down by the bite-sized dog was more than Coyote could take and her hackles went up, which is actually pretty funny because her fur poofs over her shoulders and her butt. Although, it’s never a good sign.

The barking apparently warranted the attention of the supposedly responsible adult, who put down her pruning shears and sauntered over in her cute little gardening gloves and straw hat to collect her free-range dog. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She stooped to pick up the dog. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I contemplated asking if the dog had been implanted with an ID chip, why she didn’t have a collar or tags. I thought about telling the woman that there was a black market for dognapped teacup pooches.

That free-range works for chickens on farms, not dogs in the suburbs. I decided I was too angry to be coherent, effective, and my appeals would probably fall on dumb ears, and that the best course of action was to address her with a terse, irritated, “Yup.”

I was less worried about appearing to be socially challenged, than appearing to be a raving, maniacal, self-righteous neighbor who really, really wanted to tear the supposedly responsible adult a new nasal cavity. Somewhere in the vicinity of her forehead.

On the Monday morning walk, I seriously regretted that decision. There was a piece of damp copy paper in the grass, lettered with green marker. I knew what it was, in my gut. And frankly, I almost left it there. But I went back for it. I had to see it with my own eyes, to make sure I wasn’t being paranoid. There was no picture, only the clear handwritten words:

Lost Dog please find and call 1-800-Idiot Moron
Tiny white dog with brown spots
Wearing pink shirt that says Socialite

Normally, I would try to capture my utter disrespect for a blatantly careless dog owner by portraying them as illiterate by stretching the truth, and including an insulting fake phone number, but in this case a close extrapolation of the sign does the job for me. Notice the phrasing “Please find,” as if the supposedly responsible adult is dependant on others to retrieve the dog and not out searching herself.

These people had a dog with no collar, no tags and apparently possessing only a shirt and a made-up blog name. I’m guessing that they had no pictures, or knowledge of the dog’s breed. And they didn’t think to go to the Kinkos, two blocks from their house, open 24 hours, and get something printed from a computer. They didn’t even know enough to use sturdy clear packing tape instead of the kind more effective for wrapping gifts than withstanding sprinklers.

The supposedly responsible adult in the straw hat needed a new nasal cavity. If she was getting the extra oxygen to her brain, she might still know the location of her dog. Surrendering control to my cursed tongue and accepting the roll of Lunatic Neighborhood Shrew was nothing compared to the well being of Snookie, who certainly didn’t deserve to be purchased by the first idiots to wander by her pen at the mall.

Supposedly responsible adults, you’re on notice. I’m making your dog’s business my business. I’m taking names and I’m calling the ASPCA. I am the Lunatic Neighborhood Shrew. Cower, scrape and beg. Sit! Good Responsible Adult, Good Girl!

- Sarah Letnes

Filed Under: Cursed Tongue, Guest Blog - Comments: Be the First to Comment

Tags: humor, pets

top