Dog # 1

So there's a big-ass dog where I'm at.  I like him.  He's a Great Pyrenese. If I didn't spell that right, don't fuckin worry about it.  You'll be fine.  Or you can give me an A minus.  And I'll be fine.  Or I can get on with the goddam story, if that's okay with you.  Thank you very much.

Actually, nothing happens.  At least not yet.  You never know what I'm gonna fuckin do.  Well, you can be pretty sure that I'm gonna stall and yammer on for a minute.  So you know what I'm gonna do.  But you don't know what I'm gonna talk about.  Neither do I.  Let's embark upon this journey together, shall we?

I wanna talk about my old dog.  I actually have a couple of old dogs.  No I don't.  They're fuckin gone.  I don't ¨have¨ any of them.  But I've had three dogs.  There.  Now I'm happy.  Am I fuckin satisfied?!!!  Yes, I am!!!  

But I just rolled a dice and it came up with dog #1.  Really what I did was call heads or tails on an empty can of Grizzly tobacco.  Heads was Dog #1, tails was Dog #2, and if physical law had thrown us a curveball it woulda been Dog #3.

Now I forget what the fuck I was talkin about.

Just kidding.

Dog #1 was named Mac.  He was an over-sized Irish Setter who could likely have been a mutt but who looked like a stocky Setter who was taller than average.  I was 5 when we got him.  Clifford the Big Red Dog was one of my favorite books at that age.  Mac wasn't as big as Clifford but the motherfucker was certainly a big, red dog.  Yep.  A big, red, doofus dog with big floppy ears.  I've always been a sucker for big, floppy-eared goofball dogs.

I grew up with Mac.  One of my earlier memories and almost without a doubt one of my fondest memories was the day my dad came home with Mac.  I was 5.  Mac was 5 months old, destined to be about 105 pounds in his prime when my dad would jog with him regularly in the years to come.  I remember him standing nearly as tall as me.  And I could be wrong.  It wouldn't be the first time.  Still, he was a big, gangly, hyperactive puppy who was so happy to meet me that he could barely contain himself.  My memory is vague, but I remember   hugging him and just hoping we could keep him.  And we got to keep him.

Aw fuck.  Now I'm all weepy about a dog I haven't seen in 25 years.  Argh.  Lemme think of a quick mac story.  Heh.  Quick Mac sounds like a crappy hamburger that's gonna be on sale next month.  A Big Mac with dog hair in it maybe?  Oh yeah, Big Mac was another nickname for Mac back when the Big Mac was kinda new

Mac was extremely friendly to women and children.  He didn't like men that he didn't know coming to the house though, unless my dad introduced them.  And honestly, in a family home in Southern California in the late 70s, that's probably exactly what you would've wanted from a dog.  My dad was outta the house 1 week out of every month and me and my mom and my sister had Mac helping to hold down the fort.  And he'd bite a motherfucker, too.

Dog #2 was a psycho, and I'd get real worried when I'd see a little kid walking an alpha male dog up the street.  The kid can't hold the dog.  If there's a dog fight I'm gonna need backup, and this kid can't physically restrain his dog.

When I was 8, I was walking Mac down Indian road in Sunnymead California (now Moreno Valley, I think) when we passed a house where a large German Shepard lived.  I remember that Shepard cos he'd charge the fence and freak out and snarl at me sometimes when I was walking to school.  I've always liked dogs, but I've also always been scared of the ones that I could tell just wouldn't be persuaded or commanded by a stranger.  Especially by a defenseless kid.  

This German Shepard was one of those.

As Mac kinda walked me past that house on Indian Road, I realized that the gate was open to the house where that big, mean dog lived.  Then I heard it:  Footsteps scrambling through gravel and then a psychotic snarl.  Holy shit.  I was worried about my dog.  Shepards had a bad reputation when I was a kid.  And I was 8.  I believed the horror stories.

The dog exploded out of his yard and broadsided Mac.  I dropped the leash.  The other dog's owner was waxing his car or something, calling his dog but not looking real concerned.  We were doomed.

Man. Ol Mac got on top of that motherfucker and freaked out.  Now, Dog # 2 learned how to scrap.  Dog # 1 didn't have any experience but he'd be fucked if something was gonna happen to his boy who was walking with him.  That's my anthropomorphic assessment anyway.  Mr. ArmorAll came running as soon as his dog was getting his ass whipped out in the middle of Indian Road.  He didn't yell at me or anything but I remember him being in a hurry to involve himself once it looked like it was gonna be his problem and not mine.

I was gonna take Mac to the school playground that day but we went back home.  I was in no position to be buying steaks for a dog when I was in the third grade, but the fucker sure deserved one.