Give me a brake
February 3rd 2009 08:27
Scratchy is the coolest dawg dude on the block.
He is way too cool to react to anything much except the prospect of a walk or a feed. Enter a room and repeat his name in happy, welcoming, high-pitched tones, and Scratchy will give you a long look which says something like, "Boss, are you sure that was pure orange juice you had for breakfast?"
Scratchy is a way cool greyhound.
Today, oddly, he reacted to my greeting Daisy.
I was walking down the hallway and met her coming the other way. "Daisy, Daisy, Daiseeee," I trilled. She shimmied her shoulders and wagged her tail and lifted her sweet face and smiled happily as I reached her and fondled her ears.
That's when we heard Scratchy coming. He'd been comatose on a bedroom carpet last I saw him; now here he was responding at sprint speed to someone else's name. And he questions the integrity of my orange juice.
Our hallway has polished floorboards and judging braking distances can be problematic. Scratchy applied the brakes today, but misjudged. He skidded, and then cannoned into Daisy, knocking her back several inches.
Daisy steadied herself, turned, and gave him a look which would freeze a forest fire.
"You splay-toed, knock-kneed, clod-hoppered oaf," she spat. "You five-pawed, cross-eyed, dry-nosed, limp-tailed, race track failure!"
Scratchy seemed frozen by the look and the venom of the message behind it. Then he lowered his head slowly, turned and walked away at the speed of a glacier.
A tiny voice floated back to us. "That's so mean," it said. "I only wanted to join the happy tickle."
He is way too cool to react to anything much except the prospect of a walk or a feed. Enter a room and repeat his name in happy, welcoming, high-pitched tones, and Scratchy will give you a long look which says something like, "Boss, are you sure that was pure orange juice you had for breakfast?"
Scratchy is a way cool greyhound.
Today, oddly, he reacted to my greeting Daisy.
I was walking down the hallway and met her coming the other way. "Daisy, Daisy, Daiseeee," I trilled. She shimmied her shoulders and wagged her tail and lifted her sweet face and smiled happily as I reached her and fondled her ears.
That's when we heard Scratchy coming. He'd been comatose on a bedroom carpet last I saw him; now here he was responding at sprint speed to someone else's name. And he questions the integrity of my orange juice.
Our hallway has polished floorboards and judging braking distances can be problematic. Scratchy applied the brakes today, but misjudged. He skidded, and then cannoned into Daisy, knocking her back several inches.
Daisy steadied herself, turned, and gave him a look which would freeze a forest fire.
"You splay-toed, knock-kneed, clod-hoppered oaf," she spat. "You five-pawed, cross-eyed, dry-nosed, limp-tailed, race track failure!"
Scratchy seemed frozen by the look and the venom of the message behind it. Then he lowered his head slowly, turned and walked away at the speed of a glacier.
A tiny voice floated back to us. "That's so mean," it said. "I only wanted to join the happy tickle."
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