Runnin With The Big Dogs

This is a story about my chance encounter with the infamous Gonzo Journalist, Hunter S. Thompson and an editor from the Rolling Stone. An evening to remember.

Runnin With The Big Dogs


The big male dogs, an oversized bulldog and a shepherd to be exact, entered the foyer of the restaurant; their offensive smells permeating the peaceful air; their bloody drools left dangling as a sign to the little dogs to stay back, to f##k  off. Well, that was not going to intimidate me. I'm no pissin', tremblin' poodle. I dove off the porch in perfect whippet form and swiveled my shiny, slender curves over to the hungry dogs and proceeded to seat them at a table in the far corner of the back room. Not due to offense, but because I had encountered this bulldog before, and had a good sense of the digging to come.
Once ensconced the bulldog proceeded to gnaw the bones of his journalistic fortune, ordering everything he could want or need, and then some. After all, it was his right as top dog. I gave him his due and all he required, lest he should bite me with those flappin', slimy, jowls.
His shepherd friend was another story. He was an editor for a music rag. His presence was stately and dignified. There was still the big dog smell to contend with, but his coat was fine, his ears perfect, and my whippet tail was in quite the state. He wanted bones, as all dogs do, but he didn't want gnarly knuckle ones with flapping tendons as the bulldog did. No, he was more the t-bone or spare rib type. I was happy to oblige, and wiggled and wagged about the table serving in hopes the shepherd would catch my scent, as one never knows when a bone is going to be the rubber ball to the wild blue yonder. He didn't notice, but the bulldog sure did. He stuck his fat wet nose right up my skinny tail. I was horrified into a shiver that rattled thru to my teeth. With my tail properly tucked between my legs I ran for the porch, the nerve!
Three drinks later, I found the bulldog sniffing around the front room of the restaurant; his wet nose making slurps and wheezes, his direction unsure. I showed him to the hydrant, but he wasn't interested in that. No, he wanted to see the ladies' room, have a good whiff or some bizarre male dog behavior, and, who was I to judge?
Once we entered the marble lined bathroom the situation went from strange to bizarre. Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a stack of typed papers in one hand and a green derringer full of powdery white moon juice in the other. Frantically, he began waving the pile of papers in my face; his monstrous watery eyes gleamed with lunacy, and he barked, "Read! Read this to me."
For lack of a better idea, I grabbed the pile of papers and replied,
"Sure, what is it?"
His answer was to lean in close, shove the powder in my face, grit his teeth, and hiss, "Want some?"
His psychosis was obvious. I refused the moon juice, and launched into the role of orator to a wild tale of his runnings with a nasty little schnauzer he called "The Good Judge."
I was shocked yet intrigued by the stories sordid details of drugs, guns, and complete madness. In real life, the schnauzer was one of those nose in the air higher echelon dogs, a Supreme Court judge to be factual. I thought to my self "Surely this story was going to blow the judges cover and expose him as the shrill, hysterical pocket dog that the bulldogs story implied he was." Fascinating for sure, I had to read on.
For each page I turned, the bulldog would match it with a huge snort from the green container. I wasn't concerned for myself, whippets are too cool for that, it was my slobbering companion that was cause for alarm. His color was gray and he was sweating profusely. I stopped reading for a moment but soon returned to the task as the bulldog was quivering and spouting like a volcano. "Go on! Go on, read! You must read!" His loud barks echoed on the marble walls;
I did what I had to do. I read.
Upon finishing, I quickly told him how great he was, and how good his writing was, and that was true. However, it was not the pressing need of the moment, getting the bulldog back to his table before he keeled over was. Being very careful not to disturb the force, I coaxed him back to his seat in the now empty restaurant. The shepherd sat waiting patiently at the table, his demeanor giving no sign of the fact that we had been gone for well over twenty minutes. I was impressed.
I left them to their tankards of drink, and headed for the bar to have a shot or two of my own. I needed it. My stroll in the park with the big dogs was taking on surreal effects, and strangeness was becoming the norm. Shadows were speaking in foreign tongues, leaves were shimmering at the winds command, and the scent of nitrogen rode the air. It was time to go home.
Figuring to put an end to the party, I tallied the monstrous bill for the dogs' evening of slurpins and bones, presented it to the table, and quickly went about my business of closing up shop.
I returned to collect, only to discover the dogs were not cooperating with my plan. I found them surrounded in a cloud of white smoke, and the bulldog fervently sucking on a peace pipe.
I was shocked. It was one thing to snort moon juice in the bathroom, closed doors are closed doors. However, this pungent aroma wafting from the pipe was going to get me in trouble with the head pooch. Something had to be done.
I quickly escorted the dogs out to the back of the restaurant where a tall fence surrounded a courtyard decorated with three trashcans and of course the two cook hounds. They were notorious juice whores, one a basset hound, the other an afghan. They were an odd pair and I hoped that the dogs would all mix well.
All seemed fine for a moment or two as we passed the pipe about. It was a beautiful evening, and the full moon hung low in the mountain air, its pull was overwhelming. I was transfixed into a rare moment of peace and tranquility.
The male dogs had a more typical reaction Thrusting their muzzles upward; they laid their tails flat and howled at the she mistress of the sky. It's not very often that a porch bound whippet gets to run with big dogs, let alone partake in the howling. I was mesmerized.
The spell was soon to be broken by the foaming, near rabid bulldog. His illegible grumbles had turned to raving about his neighboring dogs. They were coming over to his property, pissing on his trees, and digging holes in his yard. A direct challenge to his inalienable rights. A head-spinning jumble of political, radical, and freedom toting words were spewing from his jaws, as were the strings of slobber. At any moment I thought he might pull a gun and start shooting up the moon.
He didn't. Instead, he pulled the insidious green container out and hoovered a mountain of the moon juice. I stared in amazement. His eyes were pulsing and bulging from his head; the thick blue veins of his neck looked as if they might burst, and his rants turned to mumbles once again. I was very concerned, almost panicky. I looked to the cooks for their reaction; all I got was the disgusting sight of their pink tongues slurping the air, their dirty hound butts wiggling in anticipation, and their puppy dog eyes held no secrets. They wanted moon juice.
The bulldog put and end to their begging and passed the container. The hound dogs sucked up huge piles of the drug. At best, they were being extremely rude, at worse; they were about to become the bloody victims of a crazed beast. The bulldog’s upper lip was in a twitching curl, and a sickening snarl was rumbling up from his chest. I feared for their lives, or at least for their valued doggy parts. An intervention was needed and quick.
I leapt over to the hounds and asked for the container. The shepherd's ears drooped, the bulldog was eying me in a suspicious way, I ignored their questioning looks and pursued my goal. Once I had the horrid thing in my possession I gave it back to the bulldog. His glare of suspicion turned to twinkles of admiration, and the shepherd almost licked my face. I think the hounds would have torn me to pieces given the chance. I took this moment to herd the guest back to the table.
I managed to get the money from the dogs but it wasn't easy. The bulldog was insistent on more drinks and having the shepherd listening to him rant about politics and other boring subjects. I waited at the bar.
After some time the dogs came out of the back room, the shepherd looking exhausted, the bulldog quiet. As they passed by my seat at the bar the bulldog passed me a couple hundred big ones, I knew this meant that he had enjoyed his run in the park. I thanked him, winked at the shepherd for good measure, and let the dogs out to run.
Well, they didn't run far. Just as I was ready to shut the lights out I heard a knock upon the front door. I looked out the window to see the shepherd standing there, a look of concern upon his face. Well this was an interesting development. I hopped over to let him in. When I did, I noticed the bulldog was still there too. He wasn't coming back in, no, it was worse. He was out on the sidewalk leaning against his red convertible, a cigarette in one hand, and in the other, a restaurant water glass full of vodka. Vodka I had served him, mind you. In addition, to really throw things in to gear, next to him stood a fat used up boxer, an ugly thing. It wouldn't have bothered me in the least if he had not been the Chief of Police.
I grabbed the shepherd and jerked him into restaurant, quickly locking the door behind us. What the hell was the bulldog doing with a drink and the Chief of Police? How did he manage to sneak that by me? Images of fat bloody ticks and itchy fleas prevailed; I just knew I was going to the pound.
I hoped the shepherd might have a clever idea; shepherds usually do, but not this evening. Instead I got, "the bulldogs peace pipe is missing, wouldn't want ya to get in trouble, so I came back to find it"
This statement had me gnawing my tail and chasing in circles. Peace pipes, off premises alcohol, cops. I spun myself into a frenzy that came to an abrupt halt as my toenail was caught in the carpet. Like I didn't have enough troubles? I tried to jerk the stupid thing free but it was buried good and required the shepherd crouching and gnawing on the carpet. He was such a hero; I was swooning and almost forgot the mission. I was brought back to reality by the loud voices of the boxer and the bulldog just outside the door.
The shepherd and I went in search of the pipe. We found it, and of all places, under the table. I have the fondest memories of the shepherd and I, nose to nose under that table, his eyes locked to mine. It was amazing that I didn't roll over, throw my legs up in the air, and beg for him to take a lick. I sure wanted too, but show dogs must maintain a certain respectability to hold power in the pack, so I pulled myself from under the table and returned to the problems at the hand, the bulldog.
I peeked out the window to assess the situation. I couldn't believe my eyes. The bulldog and the Chief were smoking cigars and laughing and carrying on like they were best friends or in cahoots on a crime. I suppose they were. The crime of drinking and driving. A crime I had perpetrated. The bulldog shook hands with the Chief, and hopped into the car, drink and all. I didn't know what to do other than say a prayer.
The prayer must have worked as the boxer stumbled off down the sidewalk and entered the local pub. I think he was drunk. He must have been to not notice the inebriated condition of the journalist. I walked out to the car with shepherd, who returned the pipe, threw me a gorgeous smile, and leapt in the car.
So there I am, face to face with the bulldog, he pats the seat next to him and says, "want to go for a ride my pretty?"
" I couldn't go with this lunatic, what would become of me? He was drunk and higher than any dog had a right to be and I just couldn't do it." I gave him my most charming smile, refused his offer, said good night, and sashayed off to the safety of my own turf.
So all is well that ends well. I was back on the porch; the dogs were off to destinations unknown, and the chance to go with them, gone.
Should I have gone? Probably not.
Did I want to go? Of course. I was born a rebel bitch, and, after all, big dogs are big dogs.
Do I now regret having not gone? Yes, more than you can imagine.