You tackled the hill at Camel’s Back Park like a champ. Though the wind was blowing (with all the intensity of a stiff breeze), and the storm clouds loomed (three thousand miles away in Boston), you waddled your way to the top. Determinedly, you marched on, only pausing every five feet to sniff the weeds where another dog once peed. I can only presume you were so deprived of oxygen from the altitude change (100 feet, at least), or so awed by the view of downtown Boise, that you didn’t notice the size of dog bounding up the slope to sniff your hiney. The way she snarled and growled, it is only natural you responded by tucking your tail nub as far between your legs as it would go and trying to burrow under the chicken wire fence. But friend, at the end of the day there is no way to hide the fact that you just had your ass handed to you by a three-pound chihuahua named Lucy.
Oh, I know, I haven’t been writing as much lately, so much so that I had convinced myself you were a normal dog. I was so fixed in this delusion, in fact, that I actually thought it was a good idea to ask a friend to dog-sit while Jay and I were away this weekend. I didn’t bat an eye when she offered to take you to her house, rather than come to feed you here. I admit to having a gnawing in my gut when I got off the plane in Seattle and had a text about you rolling down the car windows on the way to her house, but it was too late to change my mind at that point.
I am strangely curious as to how this happened, and at the same time repulsed by the fact that it did happen while you were at someone else’s house. I can only imagine the private little party going on in your head when you hopped up on Amy’s table, chugged a Coors Light and took a drag on the cigarette. I wonder if you were aware she would be in contact with me, and there would be photographic evidence of the event. Then again, I wonder if it would occur to you to care that this behavior was considered socially unacceptable.