It's year twenty one one, and I have taken it upon myself to become a blog monstrocity. The reason is quite simple: I can do this through minimal energy expenditure, and I don't want to bat a .000 this year with my resolutions.
My first resolution is to run a half marathon. That is 13.1 miles. A few years ago, when I was playing collegiate football and in the best shape of my life, I ONCE ran 5 miles. I'm pretty sure I suffered a mild miocadial infarction from that terrible expedition, and never attempted it again. Now, 6 years later, I weigh 45 more pounds and am in the worst shape of my life. My class chooses me to play Santa Claus at the yearly Christmas party (no, not just because I'm jolly), size xl shirts are getting increasingly snug, and my stellar 8pack is now down to a measly sixer (joke). And I brilliantly decide to shoot for a half marathon. Suhhhhhwing-and-a-miss.
So, this is my buffer. I do plan on completing a half marathon, but if my body breaks down between now and then because it can't handle the increased gravitational torment, I can still force my philanges to churn out a few words on a blog and get my yearly resolution average up to a respectable, and probably above average, .500.
Since I am getting older and I will soon lose all memory of my yesteryears, I am going to try and recount some of my most memorable memories from my childhood.
Starting with Winston.
Winston was the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met. I remember him as a grumpy old arthritic feller who could barely walk, but somehow had no problem vicously attacking any poor sucker that pissed him off. And it didn't take much to piss ole Winston off. I, unfortunately, was innately skilled at pissing that old badger off.
Winston was our family dog.
Winston was 1.5 feet tall X 4 foot long stick-of-dynamite-hell-raising Bassett freaking hound. Bassett hounds are crosses between beagles and walruses, and are the animal visage of Larry the Cable Guy. Seriously, if Larry could be turned into mammalian form, he would be a Basset hound (Google images them both and tell me I'm wrong.) Take that, and add a healthy dose of Hitler, and you have Winston.
I was terrified of this dog. The old badger would strategically lay his oblong body across the doorway to our kitch, and wait. He was like a living bear trap that I had to cross to get to the dinner table. I'd get close, he'd glare with those awerful brown eyes. I'd inch closer, and he'd utter a low, gutteral growl. Another inch, and his jowels would start flinching as I caught glimpses of his godforsaken canines. I'd complain to mom that he was about to bite me, and she would promise he wouldn't. Another inch, and that log shaped dog would lash out and remove chunks of my ankles. The stupid dog was 9 years old and could hardly walk, but somehow his fight response was always faster than my flight response. I'd get pissed and yell at him, and my mother would get me in trouble. SHE WOULD GET ME IN TROUBLE! Why? Because, she said, I was too rough with him when he was young and made him mean.
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Yes. That is exactly what she would say. Old dub and I had great times playing together when he was a pup, but apparently a little boy wrestling with his puppy is actually dog torture, and the logical, normal response is for the dog to daily try and kill the boy when he is older. Yes, daily. This would happen every day, and usually multiple times. Winston would sprawl across the stairs and dare me to go up to my room. He would trap me in a bathroom. Every time I got too close, he would draw blood. And he never once got into trouble. And it was always my fault.
But, contrary to my mother's beliefs, it was not my fault. In fact, I can vividly remember the day that Winston became a bitter, malicious old man.
I was probably around 8, and big W was just a few years old back then. He was still a happy puppy with loving eyes and a tender heart. However, he was a sneaky devil. Despite being as tall as a stump, one summer Winston learned that he could jump, rather, jump/climb, over our fence. The fence was easily three times as tall as Winst, but it was an old flimsy wire fense. Winson somehow figured out that he could vault himself about halfway up the fence, it would start to lean, then he could scramble over it the rest of the way. I saw it happen a few times, and it was hilarious. Go back to that google image of a Basset and try imagining one launching itself. You'd think it impossible. But Winston was a rare sort, so he kept us this act until the fates had had enough.
Before I explain the rest of this story, you must understand something about Winston's anatomy. A skilled tracker would describe his trail as having 8 parts: 4 paw prints, 2 smears where his ears touched the ground, and 2 large dents between his hind paws. Yes, his nards were a scientific marvel.
One day, I am playing in the back yard and I hear the most aweful scream I'd ever heard. After a few seconds of digesting the frequency of pure terror, I realized that it was Winston. Terrified, I ran to the front yard expecting to see a wolf eating him alive.
What I saw was worse. Much, much worse.
Winston's body was on the other side of the fence, with his front paws barely grazing the ground. His hind legs were dangling helplessly in the air as he bobbed up and down with the flimsy old fense. And on the opposite side of the fence, about a half foot from the top, was an image that is till seared into my mind to this day. Winston's enormous balls were caught in the fence. Lord have mercy, the poor mut was being hung from his nuttsack. hung. from. his. nutt. sack.
Finally, among W's ever higher pitched wails of agony, my dad came out and we managed to untangle the horror. Once released from his living nightmare, I could see in his eyes that Winston, my beloved puppy, was forever changed. He was no longer a boy, and he was scarred beyond becoming a man. What was left was a bitter shell of basset hound existance that could never recover from that most dreadful of days. And no, he never tried to jump the fence again.
I don't know if Winston blamed me all those years for that incident, or if the sight of me just brought up such harsh memories that all he could do was lash out in fury. But I do know that I have forgiven him for his hate, because I just can't hold anything against a man that has been held hanging from his manhood.
No comments:
Post a Comment