Crude? Not even. I need to make an important clarification here. We’re not talking about dogs. We’re talking ‘bout your certified pedigree country ‘dawg.’ And some of them happen to be female. And pregnant.
On a regular basis, when I leave the house, whether to walk Gretchen or go for a run or even a bike ride, I am chased by dogs. Every day, at least once a day, I tell a dog to, “Go home!” Doesn’t matter what time of day, what the temperature is, what kind of neighborhood I’m in or even if the owner’s within earshot. Little dogs, big dogs, barkers, growlers, yippers; they all come out and let me know that I’m passing by THEIR territory. I should explain that while we live in a gorgeous area, there are a few pockets of impoverished living arrangements, dilapidated homes and “Katrina cottages” where it’s hard to tell if they’re occupied or not. Until I see their dawg come running after me.
While renting our friends’ condo at Harbor Landing, we became acquainted with the neighborhood “regulars.” Nobody seemed to know who owned the dogs, because I would ask them, like I asked the group of kids waiting for the school bus one morning. A chestnut Labrador mix had been following me and Gretchen for most of the block as I passed them, but when I gestured to the dog, the kids just shrugged and said, “That’s just one of the neighborhood dawgs…”
On a different morning run, I passed by a house with a Lab in front, the same that had followed me the other day. This was early in our Miss’Sippi Living experience, before I had wrapped my head around the whole ‘neighborhood dawg’ concept. I waved to the woman out front and asked if the dog belonged to her. When she replied yes, I let her know he followed us home the other day across Beachview Drive, a VERY busy street. “Oh yeah, he does that all the time. Kody’s jest got a mind of his own and likes to do his own thang...” Being the new kid on the block, I wasn’t going to judge. Shit, Kody’s living the High Life! I said thanks and waved good-bye. Kody ran along side us a few more times after that, like a running buddy. He’d follow us all the way to the front steps of our condo, and I’d tell him “So long, Kody! This is our stop!” and remind him to be careful crossing Beachview on his way home. And then he’d scamper off towards the other condo units, sniffing stuff. Yazoo was another dawg that ran with the same footloose crowd as Kody. He looked like the dog from The Little Rascals and would hang out at the pool, finding shade under a lounge chair. He was tiny enough to squeeze through the fence, and it’s not like he went IN the water to cause trouble or blow his cover; we figured he came for the atmosphere and the privacy. Yazoo is the name of my favorite county in MS. I had no idea what the dog's real name was.
The other country dawgs haven’t been so likeable. .
I don’t know if I draw more attention by having Gretchen with me, or if it’s good that I have her for protection. On one morning run, a very pregnant and very unfriendly Boxer came at us and started barking. She stopped within a few feet, close enough to see that her underbelly was swollen from nursing. “See what happens to loose females,” I told Gretchen. She kept barking at us from the middle of the road. Keeping my distance and Gretchen’s leash taught, I called out to no one in particular, “Could you please come call off your dog?!”- my voice inflected with ignorant hope that someone would hear or care or be awake to take ownership of their knocked-up bitch. “Please call of your dog???!!!” As Gretchen and I started turning around to find another path of less resistance, an anger came over me. The Hell with this! There was only one way home, and we had been out long enough- we’re going home! I looked the slut dog straight in the eye and with my sternest voice, ordered “GO HOME! GO ON NOW!! GO HOME!” And I’ll be damned, it worked. We lived to stir up bayou vermin another day.
Now, I’m completely accustomed to the neighborhood dawg. Even after buying a house and moving to new neighborhood, Gretchen and I still manage to stir up the ‘locals.’ These country dawgs generally stick to their own yards, except for a few exceptions. There’s a motley crew down the street consisting of a black Lab, a Pomeranian and a Chihuahua. We call them Jose, Jack and Jim. The three of them once tried to gang up on Gretchen and put the ‘moves’ on her before we could shake them off- obnoxious albeit somewhat amusing, like the movie, “The Ringer.” Then there’s an old Basset Hound who I called The Admiral because he would patrol back and forth between his yard and the neighbor’s across the street, assuming he lived at one of those addresses. As soon as he saw us, he would ‘sound the alarm’ which sounded more like one continuous note than a dog bark. A few weeks ago, I found out he’s a she and her name is Lucy. But we were right to think she owned the neighborhood. Her and her dachshund sidekick make the neighborhood rounds between 10 and 11 a.m., which is usually when I catch them scampering between yards from out my window. When I do, I can’t help but proclaim, “Heeeere’s Luuuuucy!” a la Ricky Richardo.
And to think poop on the sidewalk was my biggest pet peeve back in Chicago and Eagle River, Alaska. At least poop doesn’t chase you.
Here’s a song I like to sing when I see neighborhood dawgs. It came to me while biking home the other day, after shooing away a mangy terrier.
(To be sung in the style of John Denver)
Country Dawwwwwwwwg
Leave me aloooone
When I’m comin’
Down yer roooooooaaad!
Get a leash…
Or a fence…
Country Dawwwg
Leave me a-loooooooooooone.
Variation: “…When I’m bikin’/runnin’/walkin’/joggin’ down yer road…”
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