cooper dogs

copyright ©2018 arden henderson

Let me tell you a story.

It’s about the guy in the gray SUV, maybe Explorer, in the parking lot of Cooper.

Cooper is the GISD elementary school off of Farm-to-Market 971.

Christmas break. Nonetheless.

This guy had his two Rottweilers free off-leash roaming. Free. On the ground, rolling hot. Seventy-five pounds each at least, on the light side.

A relatively quiet, easy-going, gentle person was walking a little dude – a rough-coat Terrier – in the neighborhood. In-range. They both saw the Rottweilers from afar. Everyone saw everyone.

The guy walking the little dude said…

Wait, fuck, let’s go to first person narrative.

“Little dude, Chevy. Wait here,” I said.

I approached the vehicle. Looked down at the guy.

“So, what part did you think was a good idea. Letting your dogs off-leash here? In KTXing?” I asked the guy.

He looked up.

“Fuck you, I can let my dogs roam. MY dogs. They’re good dogs. Nothing will happen,” the guy said.

“Seriously? You have no idea what your dogs will do,” I said. Indeed, he has just de-qualified himself from any advice about any dog with his comment.

The guy looked around. He took a second look.

“What the fuck? What did you do?,” he angrily exclaimed. His face was twisted.

The Rottweilers were frozen in their stride. Some paws up, some down. Frozen. Everything was stopped. Leaves falling from nearby trees were frozen in their fall.

“Time has halted, dumbass,” I said. “Let’s talk about this. Are you packing?”

I find it useful to slow time down. Maybe stop altogether on occasion.

Guy looked down into his SUV and looked back up. Pretty much was packing. No surprise there.

“Now, I could call GPD with my not-smart-phone, and ETA will be five minutes, maybe less if no goofs have collided on I35 and they are busy elsewhere, or I could hit the number ‘6’ and get Animal Services out here, ETA five or so, gawd knows I’ve called enough fucking loose dogs out here. Frequent flyer, I admit that. I cannot lie. But you know, I am so tired of the stoopit,” I said, “and you caught me on a bad day. So tired of the stoopit.”

Maybe I watch too much Morning Joe. PBS Newshour. Nightly News. Austin American-Statesman. Yeah, I read the papers. Real papers, made of paper and ink. I dunno. So much news of madness, these days. Maybe too much watching news of examples the stoopit. Is there any hope in the world? Igawd, how long to 2018 elections. Right? Anyway… back to where we were.

“See this,” I said.

I was not inclined to call anyone. KTXing. It’s the Wild Wild West. So far, anyway. Besides all that, I was in an extraordinarily bad mood.

Guy looked up.

I explained.

“This is a AR510SX pointing at you,” I noted. I may not be good at much except for quick draw. Say, safety tip, if you suck at anything, don’t suck at being a quick draw.

Just saying.

I continued, “It may look like some AR–15-fuckwhatever but this is from your future. It’s called a ‘face melter.’ It’s an AR510. By the time you draw, your face will be melted.”

The guy stared at me. You could see he was weighing his options. He was trying to figure out if I was bullshitting him, even with the BFG staring at him. Not to mention me staring at him.

Sometime, I can bring up a hell-frozen stare.

I dropped into my conciliatory voice. “Your dogs are fine. Time is stopped. We will find them a better home than you provide. You put them at risk.”

“You fuck,” I had to add.

I am still working on my road-rage aka anger issues, I cannot lie, even standing on asphalt next to a very large vehicle.

“Anyway, whatever you are packing, Glock-whatever, by the time you draw, your face will be melting. Thing is, your brain will have a whole five seconds to comprehend that. You haven’t experienced the pain and horror that goes along with that comprehension.”

Guy took this in.

“Furthermore, see that oak tree over there in the Cooper playground? Figure it’s about 250 years. There will be a thing. It all starts with a ride in Walburg. But, wait, that’s another story,” I commented.

Sometimes I get distracted. Distract myself, that is.

That story involves a Chevrolet Bel Air. But, like I said, that’s another story.

Guy looks down, out of his SUV.

Small dog Chevy has shown up. He never listens to me. Not surprising, he has a Gatling gun aimed at the dude. Modern. Actually, a M134 Minigun. 7.62×51mm NATO, six-barrel rotary machine gun. 2,000 to 6,000 rounds per minute, they say.

Over there to the left, Murphy The Cat has arrived. She never misses a scrap. She is finely tuned with the hood.

Murphy is aiming a General Electric 444 Multi-Phase Laser at the guy, A weapon known to eradicate entire swaths of reality. Murphy lights up a cig and takes a looks at the guy. Stone cold.

My stone-cold stare is nothing compare to Murphy’s.

So, yeah. Probably need to to ramp this situation down.

Guy looks back at me.

“So,” I said, “There’s a leash law here. Protects you and your dogs. You can draw. Or not. The choice is up to you.”

A few weeks later, the two Rottweilers found a new home on a mini-ranch just outside Georgetown. Last I heard, they were pretty happy. Friends with small goats and at least one donkey. Or two.

Donkeys are cool. Goats, too.

What happened before that, in the parking lot of Cooper, is yet another story.

So many stories, so little time. Needlessly to say, Leon got another phone call.

No end to tow truck business ’round these parts.

Which reminds me about the big-forever oak tree – 250 years? 300 years? – in the Cooper playground. But, like I said, that’s another story.

Inspired by the all too common actual sighting of some clown walking his dogs off‑leash in the neighborhood. Not a week goes by without some such clownish nonsense exhibiting rampant stoopit.