Friday, July 20, 2012


We once had a dog named Peter...we don't need to go into the derivation of the dog's name. It had something to do with his hygienic maintenance habits, okay?

Anyway, right after we got the dog, and he was a cute little dog, the road department came along and blacktopped the dirt road out in front of our house. Whereas before Peter was happy performing his ablutions just about any old where, as soon as that road got put in, and as soon as it was cool enough to touch, Peter began to hang out in the middle of the road, doing his thing.

Well, we tried. We said, “Pete, get out of the road. Somebody's gonna come around that curve and hit you and kill you. “ But no matter what we did, up to and including going out and picking him up and depositing him back in the yard, he'd still find a way to be back in the middle of the road, luxuriating in the sun and soaking up the warmth of the blacktop. His own private San Trop.

And of course it wasn't long until a car, a little pea-green Chevy coupe, did come around the curve and before Peter, being all self-involved and all, could leap up and escape he got knocked ass over teakettle over to the side of the road, where he lay still. We thought he was dead. We all went to bawling and crying and just carrying on something awful, saying “Aw, poor Peter. He was such a good dog. But he just wouldn't listen. Poor little guy.”

But miracles do happen, and after a little while Peter woke up. And we were joyous. The only thing was that after he had come fully to his senses and for some time later he walked with a limp. And of course, everybody who came to the house said stuff like, “Aw, poor little Petey. What a sweet little, good little dog,” and comments of that nature.

More time went by. He didn't go in the road any more. And after a while, Peter regained the normal use of his right hind leg that had been hurt, praise be, and for all intents and purposes you couldn't tell that anything had ever happened to the little guy. I mean, he would run and jump and chase the balls we threw, he could even jump rope! You never in your life saw such a little engine of happiness.

But when he was bad and got scolded for sucking eggs or doing any of the other things that country dogs are capable of, his ears would droop, he'd look up at you sadly and accusingly and whimper and walk away. Limping.


  1. I've tried that. Limping, not licking my balls. Oh wait. I tried that, too.

  2. Ronny: there's a big triangle with an exclamation point there by your comment. I don't know if you see it or not or if it's merely directed at me, so's I'll know you said "licking my balls". Is there a bot somewhere that looks for phrases like "licking my balls" or did some actual person think "Boy, I'd better flag this. Ol' Panama might be offended." But, and I'm guessing here, limping is far more conducive to getting pity than publicly licking your balls. Licking your balls is more likely to result in envy than pity. At least in our circles.