Woman versus beast, who will win the fight?
Many things in life give us busy people pause to smile; perhaps even belly laugh. One late evening, while I was living in a busy city in California, I had a little run-in with a local "gang dog." Yes, you heard me right, I said "gang."
This black dog was shaved in such a way as to represent the local gang the “Crips” tag markings, and there was a blue, paisley bandanna around its hefty little no-neck. He decided my yard was the perfect place for a little canine, rubbish cruising party time. However, must it involve a noisy, messy display with my disposables? If I tried to shoo him away from the object of his desire -- my garbage, he would show me his fang–like teeth, while slobbering spit down his cheek. I expected to see a Stephen King novel play out right about that time.
This smart-ass part pit bull, but mostly ugly mutt with an attitude, found solace in my garbage container as the midnight hour approached. Needless to say, the sound of metal bins being rattled and tossed about is not conducive to a good night's sleep. Naturally, seeing the strewn garbage all over the yard in the light of day made me feel a little distraught.
The following night, instead of going to bed, I decided to join the party. I waited by the back door to watch for Cujo’s arrival. He did not disappoint as right around midnight he entered my yard. I pushed the screen door open and started banging on an aluminum pot to scare the bollocks off his proud, tough canine exterior before he got a chance to knock over the trash. That little demonstration worked wonderfully. He growled, barked, and sped away into the night, without my garbage. However, the noise also woke up half the neighborhood. Clearly, this was not the answer.
I, not wanting to be outsmarted by a local wise mutt on a terrorizing trash trampling tour, decided to lie in wait with a hand on the garden sprinkler system ready to give that demon a good splash up his woo-hoo. Unfortunately, the little rinse cycle just made him more determined to re-visit the crime scene, while getting cooling relief from the hot summer heat. It became painfully obvious to me that it was not going to be easy to rid this garbage-grabbing gangster from my trash bin.
Let me fill you in on the local trash disposal rules in that colorful California city. Our family was allowed to have two barrels of a specified size or we could have one of their rolling bins. Since the two barrels were left there when we moved in, we decided to stay with them. Any week we had garbage over the limit, we would be charged extra for surplus trash. Now, a family of seven can really fill two bins...no problem. Thus, after weeks of trying to chase that dog away, and squish all of our garbage into two bins, I got a brilliant idea. The next day I resolved to make Cujo my bitch.
I lightly packed several bags of kitchen trash and I stacked them into the bin outside. I purposely left the lid slightly ajar for easier access. Subsequently, I waited for the manic midnight moment.
It was about midnight-thirty, when the anxiously awaited moment had arrived. There was a definite rustling about outside by the bins. I knew I would not be disappointed this time.
I crept toward the screen door, opened it just as the devil dog grabbed one of those bags from the bin. He stared up at me with those cold dark gang banger eyes where a conscience does not exist, and just growled. I watched those sharp teeth clinging on to the ill-gotten gains.
“Go home you bad, bad, dog!” My pretense at being angry coaxed the dog to accept being happy with his prize and just run off to parts unknown. I stepped off the porch and walked down the pathway to see if the dog still had the garbage bag in his possession. There went that mob mutt, garbage bag between his teeth, running down the street and fading into the distance. I laughed myself silly over the ridiculous sight I had just witnessed.
Our family always had extra space in our garbage bins after that. That dog and I, well let’s just say we had ourselves this little understanding.
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