I was sittin’ quietly at the computer last night and behaving for a change. Baby, my dog, brought his Mesquite Log to the door and pounded it against the glass. Loudly! That’s his way of getting me to come out and play! It generally works, as I have NO desire to have an 18-inch chunk of mesquite firewood crash through my front door glass pane. I could “not” let him have his log, but he’s generally well behaved with it, and it’s lasted far, far longer than I ever guessed. I do actually enjoy playing with the dog, so I guess it’s the lesser of the evils. I’ll deal with him knocking on the door…
I put on my “Foo-Foo Slippers” and bathrobe as it was in the upper 30s and went out and played catch with him for awhile. I’d throw… He’d religiously fetch and bring it back… At speed!! Baby’s a “very” large German Rott, and though he’s quite intelligent at times, he hasn’t grasped the art of actually surrendering said Mesquite Log to me after the fetch part, yet….
He picks up the log and then kicks in afterburners and comes flying at me “Full-Tilt-Rottweiler-Boogie!!!” His ass tucks down and dirt clods fly as he charges. That fuckin’ “LOG” hangs out one side of his mouth or the other about a foot as he runs, and right as he reaches you he’ll dart left or right and just skim you as he charges past… Pro-Ball wide receivers could take serious ‘jukin” lessons from Baby… He’s that GOOD!
This is all fine and dandy …unless… you happen to be on the side with the log hangin’ out as he streaks by… That fuckin’ LOG will take a man down like the Grim Reaper’s Scythe when it slams it against your shin!!! Trust me on that one. Do NOT try this at home… The Justice meted out when you aren’t quite quick enough is Sure, Swift and Fucking BRUTAL! Son-of-a-BITCH that fucking HURTS!
Well, last night I guess I didn’t play quite long enough with him. Our standard evening play ritual got cut short as I was distracted, and Baby wasn’t thrilled with me. I was sitting at my bar. here in the kitchen. typing in the forum, and I freaked out when I see my dresser rocking back and forth on the porch outside the door. I mean ROCKING!!! Holy SHIT!!! What the Fuck? I thought it was toppling over towards me off the sidestand!!
My first thought, as I flew towards the door, was the wind… That was stupid. We had severe wind last night, but c’mon… That fucking bike weighs in right under 900 pounds, and a 30 mile an hour wind ain’t pushing it sideways off the stand…
I hit the porch and there’s Baby on the left side of the bike. He NEVER goes near the bike. I immediately thought he attempted to squeeze up next to the left side, between the was and spooked trying to turn around. I yelled, “GIT” which is something he truly understands, and he headed for my trailer and safety, about 40 feet away.
Then I saw my seat. Fuck me runnin’… He ate it, with enthusiasm! Really diggin’ in with all his 150 pounds, and THAT's what rocked the bike. Maybe you can feel some of my pain. It’s 3PM now. I’m calm. He isn’t dead yet. And I haven’t decided what to do. He chewed it because he was mad at me, and he was looking at me while he did the deed. If I had looked out the door we would have made eye contact while he was chewing. This is troublesome to me, as I’ve had egg suckin’ dogs before. Don’t know what to do… I don’t want to shoot him, as he’s really a good dog. But he may have to find a new home. That’s sad. It’s 400 or so dollars for the seat (S-H-I-T!), but it’s the attitude that bothers me… One, and only one “Alpha Male” lives here. To bend and be tolerant? Or not??? Should I bend???Sometimes “Reality Bites”…
Alright. It’s 4:30 in the morning and I’ve come to a realization. Call it an “Epiphany” if you want. But I’m there… Thank you JE-sus, ‘cause I figured I was losin’ my fuckin’ mind… A smidgen of Nickelback, and Chad Kroger with Carlos Santana among others, and I can see clearly again… The herb had absolutely NOTHING to do with this, other than maybe a little expansion of my thought parameters… Trust me… (Hehehehe…)
The massive question relative to this “Reality Bites” saga is: “Who the fuck am I?” That fucking dog had no input on when he was born, where he was born, who his parents were, how big he would grow to be, or who would claim him eventually… He’s already been kicked out of a life that wasn’t his choice in the first God-Damned place because of his physical attributes. I saved him from a bullet because of the look in his eyes when I met him.
He’s an unwelcome mongrel just like me. He just can’t think as good (I’d hope!). So, he likes the smell and taste of good leather. So do I. I just happen to like to lick it when it’s attached to a fine Lady, not attached to the seat of my fuckin’ motorcycle.
I've seriously been wondering what to do with this dude, ‘cause his “Sin” was atrocious. You just don’t do that to a Harley. I don’t give a Rats Ass who the fuck you think you are. You don’t eat $400 seats. The penalty for desecration of a motorcycle is extremely severe, extremely painful, and in the annals of my personal history book, generally very, VERY unhealthy. Some of you “A-List” designated biker people might not understand, but this is for real serious shit… If you want some real personal experience to help you along, go find you a hole-in-the wall bar and sit on somebody's bike in the parking lot. Pick the one that looks old and homemade, not fresh off the showroom floor. You might just learn quicker that way…
So why isn’t Baby dead already? I’ll be honest and all you bleeding fucking hearts can kiss my ass. TWICE! Use your tongue while you’re at it, it “excites” me… Oh yeah, please take a minute and tell your friends, cause two or three tongues are always better than one…
If a living breathing human had done one iota of that damage to my bike, it would be over, simply, end game. I’ve put dogs down, and well, other things too, for W-A-A-Y less. I once watched a really foolish man blow pretty pink bubbles as he tried to breathe after committing a relatively minor social faux-pas involving my motorcycle, and there was a huge tomcat in Alabama that decided it belonged on the seat of my Shovelhead. A .357 magnum changed a mind, or re-arranged a mind. The cat saw it my way, with a panoramic fucking view. Does that make me cruel? I don’t really give a fuck. There’s reserved seating in the Hall of the Damned just for me, and I’ve grown used to the idea that I’m headed that way.
I just believe that head-on is the way things should be dealt with. I once bought a Chihuahua, a goddamned steak, ‘cause he had the balls to bite me while he was looking in my eyes, and I’ve fed a faggot German Sheppard my arm and then ripped his throat and lungs out cause he slunk up behind me and nipped my calf, then tried to run.
In this case, I didn’t react that way. I’ve spent most of my adult life fighting, defending, and protecting my right to be me, and protect my property. It’s absolutely amazing to me how many really Stupid Sons O’ Bitches there are out there who think that their shit doesn’t stink, and they own not only the ground they walk on, but my little square foot of earth as well… I’ve been shit on most of my adult life, and there’s not a week goes by without someone challenging my right to just breathe.
This dog is one that hasn’t done that. Till now. But… Maybe I’m growing up, or maybe I’m waxing philosophical here, maybe I’m dumber than a fucking box of rocks, or maybe I'm under the influence of the Geritol, but today, and maybe it’s for today only, I have to assume that everything, or everyone will have a bad day eventually. God knows I have…
Benefit of the doubt? His! Baby lives, though it’ll be a cold day in hell before he is able to reach my bike again… I ain’t totally fucking stupid… Just figured I’d share this with ya’…
–KD Pennell
kdpennell@yahoo.com>
