Steve, the senior crime-beat reporter, looked over my shoulder as I wrote. I was putting the finishing touches on a breaking-news story about a neighborhood dispute that ended in gunfire.
Steve patted me on the shoulder.
“You’ll get more calls on this than on any other story you’ve written.”
Despite his experience, I doubted him. After all, I’d covered porn stars, major auto accidents, an arsonist who shot at firefighters as they arrived, and more. I’d written a front-page story about a former high-school football hero was summoned to his boss’s office to be fired. Only one of them walked out alive.
None of these stories had netted me more than one or two calls from readers.
So two neighbors arguing over a chicken-eating dog—a few paragraphs buried on page two of the Metro section—seemed like pretty small potatoes to me. But Steve was right. I got dozens of phone calls. It’s been nearly 30 years ago, but I still remember the conversations.
“He had every right to kill that damn dog,” one caller said, and then hung up without leaving his name.
“I’m mad as hell,” said Marvin, another caller. “I hope that bastard goes to jail and that they throw away the key.”
All opinions were solidly in one camp or the other, but dog-lovers were a clear majority. I was still new to the news business, but I knew that dog-bites-man stories were nothing unusual. Still, neighbors blasting one another’s pets… Well, that is different.
The dog owner claimed his pet was returning home and had crossed the property line. After a brief investigation, the sheriff concluded that chicken-owner was within his rights to shoot, and no charges were filed. But judging from the calls I got, it was probably wise that the newspaper didn’t run a photo of the shooter.
I hadn’t thought about this story for years, but recently I learned someone in the neighborhood has apparently been taking pot-shots at our dog, Lucy. The big dog often sits on a hill watching over our neighbor’s sheep, and barks.
A lot.
Karin and I do work at keeping the peace, bringing Lucy in when she barks. We don’t let her out late at night or too early in the morning. But we still get phone calls here and there.
Lucy’s a gentle, lovable giant. But she’s still a dog, and she does irritating dog-like things. In addition to her deep-throated outburst, she excavates what can only be described as caverns in our back yard. She sheds like no other dog I’ve known—and I’ve been on speaking terms with some pretty hairy mutts. But my wife would get rid of me before she’d part with her dog, and people who know us would side with Karin all the way.
This does raise a point. How much bother are people willing to put up with when it comes to dogs? It depends, of course, on whether the dog is yours… or your wife’s. Right now, I’m experiencing the downside of dog ownership. I’ve been making repairs around the house, and a lot of my work amounts to repairing dog-induced damage—dirt stains on the wall, gnawed trim molding, and eviscerated irrigation systems.
Much of this befell us during the dreaded puppy-period.
Yes, I know. Puppies are so cute. That’s why we put up with them. My own family has a branch that is presently intoxicated with their freshly minted fur-babies. These brave souls have two sweet female Labrador retrievers and both dogs just had puppies—21 in all. We visited them recently. The pups have just opened their eyes, and they are adorable…. But the pups are still small enough to be contained by an 18” tall pen. My aunt and uncle are smitten, but I fear for them. The writing—or gnawing—is soon to be on the wall.
These same puppy-loving people also have, as I pen these words, cultivated a stunningly beautiful garden. It’s the work of 30-years of planning and careful execution. They DON’T have a fenced, lawn area. I can only imagine what their beautiful landscaping will look like when they have 23 Marley-and-Me dogs dashing about.
I wish them well, and I hope they clear enough to cover the damages.
Then there’s my Dad. He went 50 years without a dog. He did own snakes for a while, and then he had Dottie, the world’s meanest cat. When Dottie passed last year, Dad swore he was done with cats.
Then he bought two Yorkies.
RJ and Benji are so small that I’m surprised Dad can see them without his trifocals, and they’re too tiny to walk. So he picked up a garden-variety baby stroller, and then set out to make the ultimate poochmobile—special tubing, expensive alloy tubing and a re-engineered frame. He extended the handlebars, built a new undercarriage, and added oversized wheels.
This one-of-a-kind buggy cost ten-times the stroller’s original price.
But no matter. He’s so proud of his handiwork. He grins as he pushes the little critters around in their canine Cadillac. Dad was never the most talkative person, but now he stops and chats with strangers about their dogs. He oohs and ahhs over other people’s pets, claiming that they’re 2nd cutest dogs in the world—next to his, of course. And he’s become in just two short months, an authority on pooches.
“The best ones,” Dad asserts, “are part Yorkie.”
I don’t remember him making that much fuss over us.
Bother, it seems, is in the eye of the beholder. All dogs, big or small, seem to be loved by someone, but not by everyone.
I do understand.
If I lived alone, I doubt that I’d own a dog. Still, I don’t hate them, and I do take exception to anyone who would harm any animal that poses no threat.
So mystery marksman, Google my phone number. You can call me and complain. But it’s not cool to shoot at my wife’s dog. Because if anything ever happens to Lucy, I’ll see to it that your picture makes it into print. And I wouldn’t want to be you if that happened.
Mad-as-Hell-Marvin may still be out there.
Robb has enjoyed writing and performing since he was a child, and many of his earliest performances earned him a special recognition-reserved seating in the principal’s office at Highland Elementary. Since then, in addition to his weekly column on A News Cafe – “Or So it Seems™” – Robb has written news and features for The Bakersfield Californian, appeared on stage as an opening stand-up act in Reno, and his writing has been published in the Funny Times. His short stories have won honorable mention national competition. His screenplay, “One Little Indian,” Was a top-ten finalist in the Writer’s Digest competition. He has two humor books in print, The Doggone Christmas List and The Stupid Minivan. Robb presently lives, writes and teaches in Shasta County, Northern California.
