Last week I told you about my fear of trick or treaters. But my dog doesn't fear them. He harbors an unfettered hatred for them. Well, them, the mailman and the Watchtower crowd (who were certainly busy last Saturday. I had two--count 'em, two!--visits. Helpful tip: answer the door holding a hatchet. Speaks for itself).
Anyway, tonight's the night. Halloween. And it's gonna' be a long one.
I'm not gonna' be too hard on the dog, though. He's had a rough week.
Last Friday, he was barking at some neighbor kids. When I looked out the window, the biggest boy had the neighbor's dog in his arms, attempting to shove him inside a stone outdoor fireplace. Quickly, I ushered my dog inside before the kids decided to exact their torture on him. Too late! He had a brand new "third eye" on his head, a small scrape.
My wife calls me a "drama queen." I prefer to think of it as utilizing artistic license. In keeping with my nature, I ran outside, hands thrashing, Hawaiian shirt flapping. I screamed, "What'd you do to my dog? He's got a gaping head wound!" Dumbfounded, the trio of terror just stared at me. Clearly they didn't know what "gaping" meant. True, the dog's cut wasn't exactly gaping and could hardly be categorized as a "head wound." But nobody pokes sticks (or whatever) at my dog. Not on my watch. Neighborhood Watch.
(Which is as good a time as any to plug my spooktacular ghost story, Neighborhood Watch. Perfect
for Halloween reading. Consider the above cautionary tale as a "prequel." Just turn on the lights, lots of 'em).
Anyway, the kids denied it. They laughed at me, the crazy old guy, as I stormed back inside. No friggin' candy for them on Halloween.
The next morning, my wife took the dog into the vet for his annual shots. The dog got much more than he bargained for. First, the vet "expressed his anal glands." Yeah, it's as gross as it sounds. Puts a whole new meaning on "expressive." If that indignity wasn't enough, the doc says he should go to a dog dentist for a couple of broken teeth. Um...yeah. Oh, and he has the beginnings of cataracts. Wonder how much doggy bifocals run?
Told you, rough week, rough week. He'll be needing to visit the doggy shrink soon, I'm sure.
(And speaking of people who need to see a shrink, be sure and check out my other Halloween fear-fest, Godland. Everyone in the book could definitely benefit from good psychiatric counseling. But what fun would that book be?)
Happy Halloween! Boo!