So I mentioned in this post that we got a dog. So I figure now I'll update you on his life. Cuz I'm sure you have nothing better to do that read about my dog.
Firstly, he's named after Noam Chomsky but with a more dog-appropriate spelling. I talked Rob into getting a dog the same way I talked him into getting a cat: I cried and told him he could name it. Actually, this time I went one step further and agreed to buy a house to put it in.
That's him. Wouldn't you cry too?
Check him out here:
He looks so astute, doesn't he? Well, don't be deceived. Wait till you hear this.
This weekend I was in the backyard painting boards for shelving in the living room. Exciting, I know. I let ChompSki hang out in the back yard with me.
Our yard is not fenced. We'd like to fence it, but we're sorta out of money from buying the damned house in the first place. So far, it hasn't mattered. So far, the dog (who spent the last who-knows-how-long living in someone's backyard getting basically no attention) has been so excited to have people of his very own, that he hasn't let us out of his sight. Seriously, he whines if you're trying to pee where he can't see you. Its like living with a very slobbery toddler. Which really is like living with a toddler, I guess. I digress.
So I'm in the backyard where ChompSki normally runs the fence with the neighbor dog or just lays in the grass content to be within armslength, when I look up and notice: He's gone.
I call. I yell "CHOMPSKI!!!" I clap. I whistle. And normally if he's out of line of sight this brings him bounding forth, smiling, and FAST. I mean, really fast. This dog is FAST.
But he doesn't come.
So I gather my crutches. Yes, crutches. And go looking for him.
I walk into the front to the driveway and look. Again, I call. I yell "CHOMPSKI!!!" I clap. I whistle.
Now, I live on a busy street. Not like interstate-busy or four-lane busy, but busy. So, when I see the dog, down the road, bounding toward me, I quickly change my tune.
Now, from my crutches, I'm waving my arms and yelling "Nooo! NOOO. no."
I see the series of cars coming, and the dog, face aflapping, coming my way full-speed.
And there is nothing I can do but watch.
The car slams on its breaks. But the dog doesn't. He has eyes for only whoever yells his name. Which by the way he is smart enough to have learned in these mere 3 1/2 weeks. He's also learned "go to the bathroom" and "lie down" and to stay the fuck away from Meowmix.
He has not, however, learned not to run into a car with his FACE.
So the car slams on its breaks and ChompSki slams face first into the driverside door. He makes a yelplike noise, changes directions, (does not slow down an iota,) runs around the front of the car and straight to me. He then excitedly continues on to the back door and I speedily hobble after him.
The guy gets out of his car, yelling "IS YOUR DOG OK?"
"I think so," I say over my shoulder hobbling after him, "I have to check."
I chase the dog into the house, and feel him all over: shoulders, elbows, legs, face, paws, everywhere. He smiles and happily soaks up the attention. Not a scratch.
I look up to see the guy at my sliding glass door looking pale faced.
"Is he ok?"
"Yes. Stupid. But ok. Miraculously. I'm so sorry. Oh my god, I'm so sorry." I begin apologizing.
But the guy is somehow convinced this is all his fault. I keep telling him it couldn't have been his fault and that he didn't do anything wrong. I ask about his car. ChompSki's face dented his car. But he's not concerned about this. I ask if he needs anything from me. But he won't hear of it. He just keeps saying he's sorry he hurt my dog.
He's pathetic, but he's not hurt. (See above)
So after a few more awkward moments of me apologizing, the guy apologizing and us getting no where, I finally say, "I really appreciate you stopping to make sure he was ok. Not everyone would have done that."
To which the guy responds "Of course I stopped! Another Mexican might not have, but I'm not like that."
Um, ok? I didn't have a stereotype for that. Vietnamese and a dog, maybe, but Mexican?
So yeah, Mexicans DO stop when your dog hits THEM. And they're very nice about it. And you're welcome for the lesson on Mexican stereotypes.
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