This photo should let you know it’s my turn to tell the Harbor Dog Story this month.
Of course, we were young and naive. Of course, we liked to rock. But WE LOVE EACH OTHER. We loved each other so much that we cashed in our lunch money for the week and hitchhiked to the nearest state with lax marriage laws.
We were so incredibly happy until the baby came and didn’t need glasses. Suspicions grew and grew on both sides. Vile accusations flew until she left me for a sophisticated 16 year old boy with his own squirrel gun and feathered bowl haircut.
I had no chance.
IN ANY EVENT…..
This month I wrote some short stories about all the really weird things my dogs have eaten over the years. I also include some pretty boring things they ate and try to spice them up with some fun writing style and photos. They are definitely worth reading. Or maybe they’re not if you’re giddy burning military waste in hastily dug trenches outside of New Rabies, Wisconsin.
Here is an exerpt :
WEIRD ETIN’ #2 — THE BUFFET
Hey! This is the SECOND time I have lied to you in a blog! I have already written this story. But THIS time, I’m going to say it the way it should be – with lots of cerebral swearing and dark, explicit, sexual flashbacks.
One beautiful spring night a pack of coyotes shot a rather large deer in the woods just outside our lawn. It was about 30 feet from our living room. The carcass became a bond that attracted all manner of scavengers and diseased wildlife. Every night they fought over the corpse very aggressively and loudly.
Not only that, but the engorged ticks fell off the carcass and reproduced 1,000 times. It was as if a nuclear tick bomb had gone off. The fallout of tiny baby ticks walked all the way to our house in a huge swarm seeking to attach themselves to our private parts and eyelids.
When Liana and I watched TV, we could hear the howls of alpha scavengers declaring ownership of the carcass. Then there were the grunts and fights between challengers and alpha scavengers for the trophy carcass. In the rare quiet moments, the gnawing and cracking of bones was extremely distracting. We could hear this cacophony even after closing the windows to avoid the stench.
When we just wanted to watch TV, I would fire shots over the coyotes’ heads to disperse them. Yes. We live in Maine. Yes. I own a shotgun. No, I’m not a weirdo. I own a shotgun JUST for this type of eventuality. I should be firing shots over coyotes heads just so Liana and I can watch Stupid and dumber for the 10,000th time in peace. Do not laugh. It’s our favorite movie and we never miss an edited network replay.
The shotgun also came in handy when we let the dogs out for their morning pee and poo before breakfast. They would all run straight for the carcass like it was free beer at a NASCAR event, and I would knock the vermin and any remaining scavengers out of the carcass with a few quick mid-air kicks.
I can just sense that many of you city dwellers are asking, “Why didn’t you run to the carcass hitting a metal pot with a heavy spoon to scare away the wildlife?”
The answer is that the shotgun was much faster and easier. And I could shoot the bullets from the deck completely naked while taking a hit rather than running around naked and pissing on my lawn like some kind of weirdo summoning a half-baked Native American spirit.
I will never forget 14-year-old Buddy, teetering desperately to the carcass in his painful, arthritic gait as fast as he could. It was the only time I remember my dogs not caring about breakfast. I would have to physically bring them home from the smelly heap. Half of them were deaf and couldn’t hear my returning cries and the other half were just plain disobedient. They were all covered in ticks.
They stank of rotten deer and eventually they started to get sick. Liana and I started getting sick when the dogs started rolling in it. I also got tired of spending my life savings on shotgun shells just so Big Dumb Buddy could go out and pee 600 times a day.
So I ended the Buffet about a month later when I saw a coyote in the woods eyeing Buddy like a calf. I put on a military-surplus gas mask and wrapped the carcass in a tarp. I threw all the disgusting mess across the road onto the neighbor’s property like any honorable neighbor would. I forget what crime the neighbors had committed against us, but believe me, I could find one.
Then all I had to do was keep my dogs from crossing the super-fast road ahead to rediscover The Rotting Buffet on the neighbor’s property.
It was a hoot.
So get yourself a mug of hot chocolate or a tumbler overflowing with thick, syrupy grappa and read the rest of “Weird Eatin” -sorry.
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