Newman and Marshall, two town characters, were known to go walkabout occasionally. One of their adventures took them to my house, not too awfully far down the road. It was a lovely Spring day as I recall and the back door of the house was wide open. I was puttering around when those two happy, practically grinning Golden Labs strolled in, tails wagging merrily. They had such a cheery ‘Hihowareya’ look about them. They inched into the house as comfy as you please and I actually asked, “Who are YOU guys?”
They answered in Dog-i-nese something along the lines of ‘My good man, we are explorers, adventure seekers, and something in here smells fabulous‘.
Whatever the case I had two furry unannounced visitors for tea and kibble, apparently. Delightful! Unfortunately, Lulu, my territorial Jack Russell, at that moment snoozing on the couch was not as happy about the drop-in. She woke to the noise, sized up the situation in an instant and launched herself upon my canine well-wishers like a 15 pound nuclear powered sausage. Never before in the annals of dogfights did shit go sideways so fast.
Without touching the carpet Lulu’s parabolic attack lifted off the couch almost vertically and arced over furniture (and my shoulder); she came plunging down out of the sun like the Red Baron on a strafing run. Even I briefly retreated at that point.
Marshall and Newman, of folksier stock, didn’t know what to make of this violent flying squirrel and raced in circles around the living room, eventually taking refuge in the kitchen where their attacker slipped around on the hardwood like Charlie Chaplin on roller skates. Their tails were still wagging but Lulu wanted blood, she wanted their hides, she wanted to turn them into rugs.
I waded in, stupidly as it turned out; you cannot, I repeat cannot, get your hands on a Jack Russell in attack mode. Not even a rat can outmaneuver one. I got buffeted around like a plastic lawn flamingo in a gale. I suddenly found myself in a Jerry Lewis movie, my hand on top of my head like I was trying to hold my wig on, yelling “Nice Laaaady!”, ricocheting off the fridge door and hip-checking the Ficus. Newman’s swishing tail managed to swipe some mason jars off a low shelf and then I found myself, barefooted, in the middle of a five alarm dogfight with a floor covered in broken glass. Now I had new problems.
At that point something more needed to happen in order to remove the insane little Hell Hound who surely must have sprung from Sigourney Weaver’s chest on a distant planet, and then I could clean up the shards on the floor afterward. So, I danced between the visiting team and the dominating defense of the home squad, O Cedar angle-cut broom wielded like a shillelagh, and chased Lulu off, locking her in the bedroom where she hurled herself against the door like an imprisoned madman and barked like a training camp full of drill sergeants.
I managed to sweep up all the glass, handed out a couple of treats, and located Marshall & Newman’s Mom & Dad. Lulu nearly tunneled through the wall like the Count of Monte Cristo and, had she managed, we’d all have been doomed. But the lads took it all in good humour and were happy to get picked up for a ride home. After they left I reviewed the events of the morning, shook my head in disbelief and immediately began day drinkin’, my little Jack Russell glowering at me with spooky resentment the whole time.
Farewell Newman – we’ll all miss you. But all dogs go to heaven. Even Lulu.
Vince R Ditrich © 2019 :: All Rights Reserved :: Random Note Generator :: A One-Man Magazine :: www.randomnotegenerator.com