Blue Lights on the Runway

The other day on Washington Street I saw a lady walking with two dogs-one barely a dog at all, in terms of carbon footprint while the other looked like a Great Dane crossed with a Brick House. I flashed on that expression always attributed to people from the South about 'it's not the size of the dog in a fight but the size of the fight in the dog.' while looking at the pair take their mistress for a pull.

She had her hands full. The big one, whom I dubbed Lenny, was slow and plodding just taking it all in. The tiny one, George, was pushing to get ahead and move on--possibly not even sure where he was heading, but making great time while doing it. He barked at every falling leaf while Lenny moved as if in slow motion while we were back up in the booth reviewing the replay.

It was entirely possible that one of Lenny's would probably weigh more than George with his leash and collar on and from the distance that George kept from Lenny it seemed, perhaps, he had come to the same realization. A chopped Honda with a rear spoiler, because that's what keeps the rear wheels on the ground when the nitro kicks in on the 1.8-liter engine, went Humpty-bumpy down Washington, windows wide open, the driver sharing his music with the world.

The microscopic rep from the Animal Kingdom was the first to voice his displeasure, I suspect because the bass was so overdriven it was probably painful for such sensitive ears. George, as befit his size, actually sounded like a squeak toy as he registered his protest.

Lenny, on the other paw, seemed at first to not notice or mind, as he plodded on oblivious to the SOHC of the Apocalypse heading in his direction, boom chakalaka boom. When the Honda could have been no more than ten feet from him, Lenny let out a HUGE bellow, the force of which may have actually slowed the Honda down, and stepped into the street, dragging his dog-walking companion with him.

The Honda hot rod stood on the brakes, which were at least as good as his subwoofers, and Lenny stood on his back legs with his front paws on the car's hood and howled in a piteously pathetic tone that simultaneously told you he was hurting and promised he wouldn't be in pain alone for much longer. Even I, who cannot tell which end of the dog to pet and which not to, knew there was no translation needed from the Dog Whisperer.

The driver fell out, more than exited, from the car frantic that he'd hit the dog. He should have had such luck; instead, he had the animal's fullest attention. The woman was struggling to control George who was doing that small dog classic barking while straining on the leash routine that translates as 'let me at 'im and I'll moider the bum!'

Meanwhile, woebegone Lenny yelped for relief from forces he could not perceive. The driver finally realized his sound system was the culprit and turned it down. The dogs quieted and he got back into his ride. I watched George, always quick to hold a grudge I suspect, christen the guy's front tire. I figured as angry as he'd be about that later, he should be grateful Lenny hadn't followed George's lead.
-bill kenny