2019-02-06 / Editorials

Definitely not man’s best friend

Len Robbins

While dogs may indeed be man’s best friend, they can also be his greatest enemy.

That statement also makes sense if you substitute dogs with: Women, children, good horses, guns, football, poker, bachelor parties, or Mexican food.

But enough about the components of my weekend. Back to dogs.

I have recently gone nose-to-nose with some dogs who certainly fall in the man’s greatest enemy category. These aren’t happy-go-lucky, l ick- you- in- the- face, always- happy- to- see-you, too-friendly-to-your-leg dogs. These are riffraff, rabble-rousing rovers, maliciously mad mutts, corrupting, conniving canines — the kind of dogs that give good dogs bad ideas.

If these dogs were human (a possibility), they would be street punks, hanging out on the corner, bullying 8- year-olds to give up their lunch money so they could juggle kittens and buy some spray paint to vandalize the nunnery.

I first came upon these doggy delinquents in my backyard, heretofore known as the battlefield.

A couple of weeks ago, I started noticing these odd patches in my yard, where it seemed something had been digging, tearing up major portions of perfectly good grass. I also noticed that someone/something had knocked down my garbage can, littering messy refuse all over my driveway.

I figured it was the workings of some animal or a UFO had landed nearby. Of course, being a sane, realistic person, I decided it was a UFO and ignored it.

But every day, there was a different spot in the yard where these mysterious varmints had dug into the soil. There weren’t really any distinguishing marks. Was it a group of raccoons? A hungry ‘possum? A lost doe? Sasquatch?

Finally, one morning as I was getting in the shower, I saw them. There were three of them — two little black and gray ones, and one big yellow one — dogs all.

I watched them for a little while. Yes, here were my culprits. The two little ones were digging next to a tree while the big yellow one watched over them, supervising. I figured him for their leader.

After a few minutes of strategic analysis, I burst out of the bathroom and ran outside. As I ran out the door toward my newly-identified El Guapos, I realized I was wearing nothing but a towel. It was 7:15 in the morning, and rather chilly for a January morn in South Georgia.

So, I ran out toward them, waving my arms, screaming. I expected them to jump up from their digging and haul tail like a bunch of scared dogs. But they didn’t.

No, these arrogant hounds looked up at the half-naked fool running across the yard and trotted off slowly, nonchalantly, very unconcerned.

Since then, every morning, it’s been a case of cat-and-mouse, or dogs-and-man, with the dogs having the benefit of not having jobs. Every time I wake up early to catch them, they wait until I’ve gone to work to do their business. And when I come home for a surprise attack, they’ve already done their dirty work, and are probably out stealing some unsuspecting dog’s water bowl.

I’m a beaten man — a man who has decided to let digging dogs dig.

Man’s best friend? I don’t think so. My vote now goes to Mexican food.

© Len Robbins 2019

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