We Like Dogs. We Just Hate Yours.
Dogs on planes, in stores, and restaurants? Here's an idea: No.
“Americans are such children.” The speaker was jiu jitsu black belt Leopoldo Serao, and his commentary? Referring to the excitement and the raw animal envy his students seemed to show for the incremental advances represented by pieces of medical tape on their belts, or stripes, that marked their upward advancement.
The statement itself was delivered not so much with passion, or a withering disdain, but the same sort of energy you might bring to saying that today is Sunday. It was a statement of fact and living in Northern California I am reminded of this constantly, especially in the presence of the Euro-philic impulse to make life here much more like what was experienced in their scant time spent in Europe.
Yes, Americans might have won the war but it’s clear that our collective cultural insecurity has wrought this slavish and painfully stupid desire to emulate. In San Francisco this has directly resolved itself in the city’s attempt to turn itself into “Amsterdam”. The City Council decided a few years ago to make driving in San Francisco difficult. Arbitrary red curbs, aggressive parking enforcement and now sidewalk encampments for eateries has resulted in San Francisco, both being nothing like Amsterdam and a colossal pain in the ass to get around.
“Is the dog violent?” The police dispatcher I am calling, for the fourth time in the last two days wants to sigh but manages to ask this question without doing so.
“I don’t know. Let’s wait and see!” I have become a Black Karen about this issue…
On top of this strollers outside of restaurants sort of was a thing, for a bit, like in Europe, until stranger danger and CPS involvement scared new parents out of imperiling the lives of their offspring.
But in travels hither and yon I’ve now shared an airplane row with a Great Dane. One, it should be noted, who didn’t wear pants and should have been wearing pants. I’ve seen dog fights in restaurants while owners acted surprised that their dog would be fighting with other dogs in a restaurant because how would something like that happen?
Moreover, and most confusingly, I’ve been in parks, with dog parks, trying to enjoy some blanket time with my two-year-old daughter while dog owners who refuse to use the dog park apologize to me because their dog ran over my two-year-old daughter.
“Can you imagine that I don’t like this?” I was speaking to a woman with a ridiculously long leash as she laughed and apologized because her non-human companion had just “accidentally” trammeled over our lunch in a park. Next to a dog park. That she was steadfastly refusing to use.
“Well, sorry!” Like saying it twice would make me understand. I guess that her dog, and by extension her, had an inalienable right to shit and piss wherever it felt like. Like G-d intended.
I just chalked this up to “modern malady” and tried to not think about it again. Right up until a recent trip to San Diego. Dogs are everywhere in San Diego and yet them being everywhere they’re supposed to be speaks volumes about this community of surfers, retired cops and ex-military. Dogs being everywhere they’re supposed to be also means they’re nowhere they’re not supposed to be.
Dog parks are used by owners of dogs, dogs not in dog parks are kept on sensible leashes and it’s as far from the Silicon Valley-fueled exceptionalism, that I believe is at the root of this Bay Area disease, as it is from the politics on Mars.
“Is the dog violent?” The police dispatcher I am calling, for the fourth time in the last two days wants to sigh but manages to ask this question without doing so.
And despite all of the noise about pitbulls being problems I raised them without problems. Of course, until there was a problem.
“I don’t know. Let’s wait and see!” I have become a Black Karen about this issue because it dawns on me thusly: as much as I love MY penis, I strongly suspect I might be alone in this regard if I was letting it run wild during an afternoon jaunt in the park.
“We’ll send someone out, sir.” Then she sighed. As did all of the people I was with. But there’s something irksome about the guy standing under a no-dog sign with a dog looking for all of the world like a guy that would call the cops if I was sitting there with a beer.
I love dogs though. Over the years I’ve had 10 or so. I used to breed them. My last one, Popeye, used to travel with me on book tours. I’ve also had some horrible times with dogs. Hospitalized once as a result of an attack and a subsequent infection. And despite all of the noise about pitbulls being problems I raised them without problems. Of course, until there was a problem.
“Come on, move.” I was struggling inside the large gate that ringed my house with a briefcase in one hand and a yard sprinkler in the other. My dog Malo had, curiously, braced himself across the way. His posture confused me, but I needed to get the gate shut behind me and so I pushed in, pushed it shut behind me, and moved toward the front door when he struck.
Malo latched on to my left hand and started whipsawing his jaw back and forth. He had been the runt of a litter and so I kept him, nursed him back to health and had no problems. So I was surprised, to say the least. But my hand was also hurting and I was not thinking straight, or at least as straight as I might, when I dropped the sprinkler and went for my pocket knife.
You see, I forgot and brandished it in the same way that I would have with a human being, thinking the visual impact would be enough to make my intent clear. But it meant nothing to Malo and then I knew I’d have to make good with what I had only threatened.
I aimed for his eye but there’s something so human about eyes that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I also had a two-year-old daughter around the house and I was channeling the state of affairs that would have involved her, instead of me, and the first strike veered away from the eye but struck him between the ribs.
[S]tabbing was tremendously different. Your hand just kept going. Until it was warm. And then red.
Then in short order, I stuck him five more times, in the neck and the body noting with a certain kind of curious calm that the normal physics of punching, where the subject stops your punch with their body, stabbing was tremendously different. Your hand just kept going. Until it was warm. And then red.
After the sixth stab Malo released and ran. I went to the back deck and sat there watching the dog house. I called him out and he came. Like nothing had ever happened, he curled up next to my leg. Maybe he thought I was me, and that guy at the gate was some intruder. I didn’t know but I did know that this trip wasn’t going to resolve itself at the vet’s.
I wouldn’t have known how to explain the stab wounds, and I was massively thankful that it had been me who was attacked and not my daughter. A chance that would forever be denied him as I decided that we were enjoying his last moments on earth. I reached into my briefcase and pulled out my Walther, also known as my “work” gun (workplace shootings had me on edge enough to realize that preparation was a 24-hour-a-day deal), pet him and apologized, right before I shot him in the head.
He fell and the loud report of the semi-auto brought out the neighbors while I acted as confused as they were about where the shot came from. Even though it was fairly obvious where it had come from I guess my neighbors figured out that pushing on clearly crazy had its limits.
None of which I remembered until last night. I was at a fashion show in San Francisco. Ruby, daughter number two, was having a big catwalk moment and I wanted to be there. Bringing along Kora, daughter number four, it was a cool scene and her 3 and a half year old enjoyment at the scene was palpable and wonderful.
There were other kids there and she, understanding it was a fashion show, had decided to dress herself in a tutu and Doc Martens, with a unicorn t-shirt. Ripping and running with two other younger kids, it was…mellow. Even when the dogs showed up. Dogs in purses, old lap dogs, and then a dog that drew notice. Maybe a Weimaraner, if you knew dogs, you’d have known that this dog was not digging on being here.
Kora wandered over but fired about a story I’ve told about the first time I was attacked by a dog she approached with caution. The people, knowing their dog, kept some distance as I watched from about 20 feet away. The woman of the older couple gave Kora some dog food to feed the dog and Kora was smart enough to throw it to the floor. Where the dog inhaled it.
This satisfied all involved. On the second, or very possibly the third feeding, the dog made his move right when I did. He lunged at Kora, right as I covered the distance my pocketknife now in my hand. The woman of the couple stood and moved in front of her dog and tried to talk to me but I was in that liminal space where all I could see was the dog and my desire for a teachable moment to end all teachable moments.
I envisioned the outcome of an action about to be embraced: Ruby’s father stabbed a dog on the catwalk at a fashion show.
“He didn’t get her!” She kept repeating. Kora looked up at me to get a read, and I had a reassuring hand on her shoulder even as I advanced on the dog with my knife. “We’re SORRY,” the woman shouted over the house music but only succeeded in reminding me that there’s something about San Francisco exceptionalism that made this moment, above all, necessary.
Then that momentary break between thought and action where I envisioned the outcome of an action about to be embraced: Ruby’s father stabbed a dog on the catwalk at a fashion show. This broke the spell and I blinked, finally, and in that space her man fled with the dog, and her, and the moment had…passed.
I hadn’t ruined the fashion show, the dog, or my prospects for a trouble free evening. But what had happened hadn’t passed Kora’s notice.
“What were you going to do to that dog Dad?”
She had seen the knife but I always carry a knife. That wasn’t it. Always carry, but rarely actually seen with it in my hand.
“Well, kid…” I had promised myself years ago, after watching Whipping Boy’s Steve Ballinger, the first peer I’d known to become a father, that I would never bullshit my kids. Like ever. “…I was going to kill that dog.”
“Why?”
“If it had bitten you, I’d have killed him so he’d not bite anyone else.”
“It’s not his fault. He was just scared.”
“That’s easy to say if you’ve not been bitten,” I shrugged knowing she was making more sense than I was.
The fashion show continued without event. And a good time was had by all.
[Video below by Chris Robinson.]
OK…So you have ordered the memoir A Walk Across Dirty Water and Straight Into Murderer's Row, from Amazon…Or the Bookshop.Org dealie: Here?
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I have a legal ADA protected Service Dog with full on tactical gear to designate her as such so she can go literally anywhere I go to be my medical aid. Event so, I don't choose to take her everywhere, like my granddaughter's 6th birthday party at a pizza parlor/arcade this past weekend. Despite all her training and non-reactionary skills I felt it wasn't the place for her and too much stimulation and too much sensory overload and too many littles running amok and why test her that way?
I get a lot of anxiety about taking her places, even with her training and gear and two doctor letters and a badge and certificate and gear and patches and her all, I still feel really nervous taking her in places and worry about some not so well trained dog testing her. And if she felt I was being threatened I do not doubt she would defend me and I would not want to be in the middle of a dog altercation or have to deal with the owner of the unruly dog. I don't like it when people without service dogs feel entitled to take them everywhere. Like the local home DIY big box stores. Dogs of any sort are welcome there and it really stresses me out when I am with my SD. She ignores them all and does her job, but I feel stressed. And as much as we have a bond and have worked together, I always keep a close eye on her around the 6 yr old and the 9 month old granddaughters. She likes to give them kisses and lay in bed with them and she will growl protectively if you come at either of them suddenly in her presence.
It was hard to read this, but having been a Vet Tech for many years, and having been bit more than once, and having had to get rabies shots, I get why you felt you had to do what you had to do. But as an animal lover it was hard to read. I belong to a lot of online dog groups and the majority of people have nothing good to say about going into dog parks. So then they end up in regular parks. If they aren't going to be keeping the dog on a short leash and minding its behavior they have no business doing this. But I know not everyone here in the midwest sees it the way I do. But it is nothing like what you describe on the West coast, thank goodness.
Glad the littlest Robinson was safe and well at the fashion show!
Oh, wow, was that daughter #2?? She's GORGEOUS! <3
And I'm glad you didn't end up ruining the fashion show or the dog. MOST of the time, the fault lies with the owner. SOME of the time, the dog is just messed up in the head. Still, you can't take chances with the littles around and large dogs. Srsly.
Our 90 lb LabraDOG (Lab/hound mix) was an energetic, enthusiastic bundle of energy when meeting people and would cheerfully run over small people. He was not *allowed* to run over small (or any other size) people. Good leashes make good dogs. Good training AND leashes in public make better dogs. Our Buddy LOVED his daddy, but he would turn into a neurotic mess if daddy wasn't around. Thus, a really good leash & a dog-mom used to handling 1200 lb horses. :D Oh, yeah, and NOT TAKING THE DOG TO A FASHION SHOW.
O.o
What in the WORLD goes through people's heads???