civilization, and here I am in my drug dealer’s house helping myself to premium bud. This is what I need right now. Calm the nerves, so on and so forth. I wave her away and pick up the entire stack, fresh buds, pollen, nuggets, all of it.
I make it to near the front door before they find me.
I’m standing there, almost Scott free, the bud bins in my arms when I hear this low meta-growl, like a symphony of growls. I slowly turn around and then even more slowly set the bins down at my feet. There they are, six pits standing there, teeth bared and their threatening registers mix together into some unholy note of displeasure. I slowly lift my hands up over my head and then reconsider (dogs don’t know that sign) and put my hands out instead.
That’s when the line of angry grimaces breaks. One by one they cock their heads as if my smell has finally made its way past the skunk weed and through the maze of their doggie gray matter. Almost in unison they plop on their back haunches, their red tongues popping out of their heads. I keep holding my hands out except now I reach to let them smell more of me. They are still, after all, dogs, and they know my smell. They are overjoyed to see me even. The wall breaks and I’m surrounded by short, warm fur and my fingers and then arms are covered in gloppy pit-bull kisses. I’m trespassing but they’re hungry and scared and bewildered, most likely.
It breaks my heart, really it does. Five, no six pit bulls. All of them waiting obediently in this house for Wes, thinking the next moment he’d stumble through the door in his blasted stupor.
“Good doggies,” I say as I open the front door and slide the boxes outside.
I stand there for a moment, thinking about taking them with me. Then I wait a bit more for sense to come. I’m on a quick jaunt up to Dallas. No way six dogs will do anything but slow me down. Plus, I think they might be better off simply having run of the neighborhood or beyond. Revert to their feral nature. Run and hunt in packs and all that. Or is this just the wishful thinking of an idiot?. But for now, for now, what do I do?
I search the house top to bottom and find a literal half ton of dry doggie chow locked away in the basement. I bring it all up, all twenty bags and set them in a bunker next to the doggie door. With my knife I cut the sides of the bags and the chow skitters across the tile floor, drifts against the bags. I take the kiddie pool that Westley was fond of soaking in when utterly blasted and I fill it with water from the still running back tap. The dogs are at my feet the whole way, greedily pulling at the kibble, greedily lapping from the pool. When they are sated they look up at me expectantly. Where to now oh great leader? They seem to wag.
This is going to be tough.
I head to the big walk in Sub-zero. Inside I find about twenty pounds of steak, both chilled and frozen. The pits go crazy even though they’re full on kibble. I take each piece and toss it overhand clear across to the other side of the yard and the puts take the bait and run after. As they fight over the meat I book it the other way, back through the rear entrance across the bottom of the house and through the front door.
I leave the front door cracked open, of course. I grab the bins at my feet and walk to the wide gate to distract the dogs.
They sit there on their haunches and do that thing, that almost too high to hear squeal. I wish it were all just a few octaves higher because then I wouldn’t be able to hear anymore that sound that fucking breaks my heart.
The paranoid thought takes up in my head for a moment: what if they aren’t smart enough to find the unlocked front door. I disabuse myself of the notion quickly. Their noses will lead them out eventually. I tell myself I can’t take them with me for the last time. Then I think they might find me too quickly, the lot of them running to the front door and peeling off after me. I take the last bit of jerky out of
I make it to near the front door before they find me.
I’m standing there, almost Scott free, the bud bins in my arms when I hear this low meta-growl, like a symphony of growls. I slowly turn around and then even more slowly set the bins down at my feet. There they are, six pits standing there, teeth bared and their threatening registers mix together into some unholy note of displeasure. I slowly lift my hands up over my head and then reconsider (dogs don’t know that sign) and put my hands out instead.
That’s when the line of angry grimaces breaks. One by one they cock their heads as if my smell has finally made its way past the skunk weed and through the maze of their doggie gray matter. Almost in unison they plop on their back haunches, their red tongues popping out of their heads. I keep holding my hands out except now I reach to let them smell more of me. They are still, after all, dogs, and they know my smell. They are overjoyed to see me even. The wall breaks and I’m surrounded by short, warm fur and my fingers and then arms are covered in gloppy pit-bull kisses. I’m trespassing but they’re hungry and scared and bewildered, most likely.
It breaks my heart, really it does. Five, no six pit bulls. All of them waiting obediently in this house for Wes, thinking the next moment he’d stumble through the door in his blasted stupor.
“Good doggies,” I say as I open the front door and slide the boxes outside.
I stand there for a moment, thinking about taking them with me. Then I wait a bit more for sense to come. I’m on a quick jaunt up to Dallas. No way six dogs will do anything but slow me down. Plus, I think they might be better off simply having run of the neighborhood or beyond. Revert to their feral nature. Run and hunt in packs and all that. Or is this just the wishful thinking of an idiot?. But for now, for now, what do I do?
I search the house top to bottom and find a literal half ton of dry doggie chow locked away in the basement. I bring it all up, all twenty bags and set them in a bunker next to the doggie door. With my knife I cut the sides of the bags and the chow skitters across the tile floor, drifts against the bags. I take the kiddie pool that Westley was fond of soaking in when utterly blasted and I fill it with water from the still running back tap. The dogs are at my feet the whole way, greedily pulling at the kibble, greedily lapping from the pool. When they are sated they look up at me expectantly. Where to now oh great leader? They seem to wag.
This is going to be tough.
I head to the big walk in Sub-zero. Inside I find about twenty pounds of steak, both chilled and frozen. The pits go crazy even though they’re full on kibble. I take each piece and toss it overhand clear across to the other side of the yard and the puts take the bait and run after. As they fight over the meat I book it the other way, back through the rear entrance across the bottom of the house and through the front door.
I leave the front door cracked open, of course. I grab the bins at my feet and walk to the wide gate to distract the dogs.
They sit there on their haunches and do that thing, that almost too high to hear squeal. I wish it were all just a few octaves higher because then I wouldn’t be able to hear anymore that sound that fucking breaks my heart.
The paranoid thought takes up in my head for a moment: what if they aren’t smart enough to find the unlocked front door. I disabuse myself of the notion quickly. Their noses will lead them out eventually. I tell myself I can’t take them with me for the last time. Then I think they might find me too quickly, the lot of them running to the front door and peeling off after me. I take the last bit of jerky out of
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