I love my three dogs, but they are social retards. When they see other dogs on our walks, which is nearly 100% of the time, their transmogrification into saliva spewing, 4 legged demons from hell is humiliating.
I’m forced to cross to the other side of the street, a good quarter mile from the other dog, dragging my pack as I go, trying not to get tangled up as they cocoon me in leashes like a spider cocoons its prey. The smallest of the three, Pokey, a sweet female french bulldog, normally lets loose a bark that is 3 octaves lower than normal and has me looking around for the canine ventriloquist that must surely be hiding in a nearby bush. And then there’s Eddie. Eddie’s a pit bull who was rescued from a seedy neighborhood and he’s just never going to be a dog I can take to Peet’s to grab a coffee and hitch to a park bench to wait for me while people amble by patting him on the head saying “What a good dog.” I have visions of glancing out the cafe window while adding milk to my coffee spotting a park bench making its way down the middle of State Street while just ahead of it, a well meaning but terrified child is headed for years of therapy. “No really, he’s such a sweet dog, you just have to get to know him. Just play dead. It works for me.”
Eddie, Sophie and Pokey (as a puppy, I need a more recent picture).