Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Little fucker lied to me

This morning I awoke to the smell of tartar and ass, or what the civilized might call "dog breath." Squat was parked beside my bed, staring at me. I knew it before I looked, I could feel him boring holes through my eyelids. The panting and foul breath didn't help to conceal him either. Not even my alarm clock was awake yet, it was just too damn early to go for a walk.

"Where is your mother?"

He licked his chops and sneezed in that little, hairy dog way of his, projecting his breath I'd swear straight into my nostrils. I grabbed the eye drops from my nightstand and threw them out the door. "Fetch!" Squat glanced over his left shoulder but he was not amused. Nor was he giving up his quest for whatever the fuck little, hairy dogs quest for at 5 am.

I ended up letting him outside before he soaked my carpet. I don't even own a vacuum cleaner, a shampooer is certainly never going to happen. Squat speaks English, which I find damn impressive. He even cusses which impresses me more. After just a few days he's learned the meaning of, "Go shit in their yard, not mine." I'll probably get a letter from the HOA this week.

So anyway, Squat sits calmly while I shower, watching me through the glass. I think he's sizing me up. That's ok. I have thumbs. I win. Afterwards he follows me from room to room to the point that I find myself being more efficient so as to avoid excessive backtracking. Whenever I leave the house, Squat knows its coming and he curls up on a pillow I've thrown by the front door for him. He'll do his little 360, then drop his chin onto his paws and half a head of hair will rise with his eyebrows as he looks at me. I had decided to buy him a dog bed on the way home. But that was before I drove past the firehouse on my way to work.

As you'll recall, I found Squat near the firehouse, walking across the front lawn into a neighbor's yard. Posted there on the stop sign was a photo of him with the words Lost Dog above it. Turns out Squat's name is Freeway and he is a Shi-Tzu. Guess that's why he understood the word "shit."

So I turned around and gave the number a call while I headed back to my house. The woman who answered practically started crying, said he disappeared last Thursday. Coincidentally, that is the night I found him.

I walked in my front door and Squat's head shot up, not trusting whether I was home to stay or not. I said to him, "Freeway?" He jumped to his feet and his tail started wagging. "You little son of a bitch, you had a home all along." He barked, manipulative bastard.

The woman showed up, maybe 12.5 seconds later. I carried little Mr. Free Ride Freeway to the door and when I opened it I felt his heart nearly explode while he whipped the shit out of me with his tail. She took him and he rubbed that foul tongue all over her face. (By the way, nita, I think she definitely french's her dog.) She asked me where I found him, but I was struggling with my wounded pride at seeing how quickly I was forgotten and I couldn't recall the name of the street. She said, "I'll just tell you where we live. We live next door to the firehouse."

At that moment, I swear to you, Squat turned and looked at me. And I knew damn well why. Son of bitch. He wasn't trucking it for the busy intersection when I found him, he was trying to run home. I dognapped the little motherfucker right out of his front yard.

So much for my noble rescue.

(Goodnight, Squat.)