Of Dogs, Bottles, Knuckles and Glass Doors: Part I
Punching the glass door wasn’t a great plan.
Well, when I say it wasn’t a great plan, I don’t really mean it was much of a plan at all. Also, I would argue that I didn’t really punch it as such. It was more of a tap. A heavy tap, but a tap. With my knuckle.
Okay, so I punched the glass door.
Let me start from the beginning, though.*
I was out working in the garden one day when my dog Balrog managed to get through the gate somehow. I suspect he cleverly got out after I had left it open by mistake, but there’s no evidence to support such a theory so I’m going to assume it was magic.
Now, there are two things you need to know about Balrog. Balrog has never in his 10 months in our house hold run away from home, and he bloody loves plastic bottles. These may seem completely unrelated, but bear with me. See, Balrog and me were out in the garden. I’ve been working on that garden for two years now to get it just the way I like it, and I think if I stick with it, I’ll get there some time next decade. That’s a story for a different day, though.
While dragging stuff between the front and back, I noticed that the fuzzpot was nowhere to be seen in the actual garden, nor had Marit let him inside. The first few times your little creature wanders off out of your sight are terrifying, whether the monster is a dog or a child or a python or whatever else, so slightly freaked out.
Moving toward the front of the house, I employed the time-honored method of half-jogging while looking in every direction, interspersed with the odd pirouette. You know, in case he’s suddenly behind me where I had just established he couldn’t possibly be.
Once at the front, I immediately found him gnawing on a plastic bottle some berk had thrown away outside my house. One thing you definitely start to notice once you have a dog that needs to put absolutely everything in his mouth is just how much litter there is in your neighbourhood. Well, there is in mine. Apparently, nobody is ever taught to bin their trash around here.
My initial relief was quickly followed by an intermingled sense of annoyance and dread. Balrog is a lovely, kind dog if a bit mouthy and attention hungry. Balrog off-lead with a Thing He Wants is just an asshole. I approach carefully, coaxing him to come closer. We’ve danced this dance before, and shouting or running at him never works to anyone’s advantage but his, as he gets to keep the bottle and play! Sure enough, he bounds up with surprising agility for his size (he’s easily the size of a small husky by this time, and not done growing yet) and moves himself to the middle of the street. Great.
I go to the front door to get some treats to tempt him with, but it’s not working. I plead and verbally stroke him to no avail, and finally give in to shouting, which predictably has no measurable effect whatsoever.
This is when I turn to walk inside, hoping he’ll follow as he normally does when he can’t see me. And, in this heated moment of annoyance and frustration is when I open the next door with the knuckle of my hand.
The Glass door.
What follows will be recounted in the next exciting and overly verbose instalment of the most irregularly updated blog this side of Arthur’s Seat!
*as if you have a choice. I’ve already done it, and you weren’t here to stop me. You can’t retroactively not let me start from the beginning unless you have a time machine. Then again, I actually didn’t start from the beginning, did I? I started a bit in and then jumped back to the beginning despite the fact that I could have just started from the beginning. I know what you’re going to say: “It’s a storytelling technique! Just get on with it!” but I feel there’s a larger issue here. By saying that I will start from the beginning, I am lying straight to your face. Stories are all lies. Even the true ones. Just keep that in mind. This story isn’t a lie though, it’s true. And not in the way that it’s also all lies. I mean- oh forget it. [back up]