The other morning, I witnessed one of those yappy, prancy, little kitten-sized dogs come close to being eaten alive by a German Shepherd.
I was on the Shepherd’s side – it had been completely minding its own business, as its owner walked it along on a leash. It was just another, run-of-the-mill stroll in the park for them - and for me - until an obscene, unleashed terrier (spottily attended by two snotty, let’s-take-up-the-whole-sidewalk, idle-housewives-seeming women, who reminded me of larger, gourmet-coffee-drinking incarnations of their microscopic dog - I sized them up as the types who would fork over thousands of dollars for the creation of a purebred, trophy dog instead of adopting one of the millions of homeless ones) ran over to quite antagonistically get right up in the Shepherd’s face.
The Shepherd went apeshit, flogging the terrier around with the sides of its bared-teeth open jaw. The high-volume snarling and barking had to have echoed for blocks. I know dogs, and if this Goliath wanted to make this dim-witted David disappear forever, it would have happened – s/he was just trying to teach Toto a memorable lesson. When class was over, the toy-soldier terrier finally managed to gimp away in full-on victim mode, self-righteously chirping and looking up to marshal support from all the gape-mouthed spectators.
That German Shepherd is exactly the kind of dog I want with me whenever I move into my little house in the big woods. The kind whose guiding instinct is: “Don’t you come at me and my beloved caretaker like that if you know what’s good for you, you silly punk.”
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