Izzy and I have some Pitty friends, and we love them, so this one’s for them! No hatin’ peeps 🙂
Izzy and I have some Pitty friends, and we love them, so this one’s for them! No hatin’ peeps 🙂
In our neighborhood, we know who lives in every house (I know the humans, Izzy knows the animals) and have begun to learn their habits. The old guy with the pit bull-mix that doesn’t like Izzy walks Main Street around 6 PM. If we’re there at the same time, we have to walk on separate sides of the street, because he can’t quite control his young, angry dog. (It’s not his fault. The dog came from a home where he was tied outside in the back yard all the time, and he’s frustrated. I think the dog could use a LOT of exercise, but the old man can barely do the walks down Main Street a couple of times a day, never mind run with the dog to get rid of some of his aggressive energy). On Main Street, the artsy couple walks their two dogs very early and when we didn’t see them one day, I wondered why. We found out the next day that the older dog had passed away. And two houses down from us, the Spanish teacher at the community school takes out his dachshund at the same time that Izzy and I make our second walk before I leave for work. They have a sniff every weekday morning, then happily trot away. When I heard the dachshund barking every day over the Thanksgiving holidays and didn’t see the teacher’s car, I started to worry, but it was okay. He was just away for the holiday.
During the holidays, certain houses decorate over the Thanksgiving weekend (I’m one of them) while others don’t decorate at all. Izzy watches them out the window, patrolling the couch to make sure that no one puts any extra decorations on our lawn.
And when we walk the neighborhood, we check out the sights that we see along the way. The yellow Victorian house that had such wild decorations for the Halloween holiday has now put out their figures and lights for the Christmas celebration. But one of them seems oddly out of sync with the others.
In the middle of the lawn, in front of the sparkly horse and Cinderella-type carriage that the folks used as their focal point last year, stood a life-size brown wire moose. A moose. Izzy looked at it, then looked at me, then peered back at the moose again, as if to say, “What the hell does that have to do with Christmas?” I started laughing. I’m thinking the same thing.
That’s what holidays are like in my ‘hood.
While I do believe that when it rains out, Izzy needs his ThunderShirt, both to stay dry and so that he won’t get freaked out if it’s thunder and lightening while we’re out, I’m not so sure he needs a specially-designed sweater in the middle of the winter or a nice wooly blanket for football season. Seriously. What is it about people who dress up a Golden Retriever in a kerchief like some Middle-Eastern babushka-wearing grandma? And how long does the dog keep the kerchief on to begin with?
I’ve read a lot of articles about Baby Boomers and how we are treating our animals as though they are the children who have long since left the nest. While that might be true (not only of Baby Boomers but pretty much everyone who’s crazy about their pets), I’m still not convinced we have to turn animals into pseudo-human-children. I’ve seen Chihuahuas in pink tutus, poodles in berets, and boxers in Irish Fisherman knit sweaters. They all look the same: ridiculous.
I’m writing this and remembering that the dog I had when we were growing up often got scalped rather than having a decent haircut (because my parents were do-it-yourself-ers). Tammy would skulk around, head down, eyes averted, as if ashamed that she was “nude.” In that particular case, I can see putting something on her nearly naked body if it was the middle of the winter, because she certainly would have frozen. But should we dress our animals just to make a statement? Does a Cocker Spaniel really appreciate being dressed as a dragon for Halloween? Should we create a mini Pekingnese version of Santa Claus on December 25th? Or what about a heart-shaped Pit Bull for Valentine’s Day?
Maybe I’m just being an ol’ poop, but I don’t get design clothing for dogs. http://www.refinery29.com/pet-accessories?utm_source=email&utm_medium=editorial&utm_content=los-angeles&utm_campaign=131029-dog-accessories#slide-1
I’d be interested to hear how you feel about dressing up your lovely pooch. And I would venture to guess that your most affectionate cat wouldn’t sit still for putting on a hat or a vest or a lovely sequined dress!
When I was younger, I took a women’s literature course and one of the writers the young professor introduced us to was a revolutionary woman named Rigoberta Menchu. Physically, she presented nothing of a threat: plump, ordinary-looking, no scowl on her round face. But mentally and dynamically, she’s a powerhouse for the indigenous population of Guatemala. I remember reading her work and appreciating the guts it took for her to speak truth to power and righteously defend her people. She not only defended people; she defended animals and nature . . . basically, she defends the rights of all living beings.
She said, “There is not one world for man and one for animals; they are part of the same one and lead parallel lives.” That statement is so simple but incredibly powerful. And true. One thing you can count on with Menchu is that she tells the truth.
This morning, I was thinking of that statement when I walked Izzy before the sun rose. We saw several of his dog friends while walking. One’s a female boxer whose submissive and sweet personality reminds me of Menchu herself. Boxers are strong, muscular dogs, yet Peaches defies the stereotype. Instead, she is friendly and wiggly, like you would expect Izzy to be. Both of them are the exact opposite of what you would expect, as is Menchu.
We inhabit a neighborhood where possums live next door to foxes, bluebirds share the sky with buzzards, tiny yappy dogs (like the Chihuahua down the street) walk the same streets as burly pitbulls. Black Methodists sing in a church a block away from White Baptists. Single women who have grown up in North Carolina and spent their lives surrounded by family are friends with others who grew up in New England and have no family nearby. Doctors shake the hands of field workers. Though there are times when our paths do not cross — and other times when they collide — we all are part of the same world, and as Menchu states, we lead parallel lives.
As I pondered that thought, Izzy did his morning routine: sniffing under the old white Cadillac for the tortoiseshell cat that hides there, peering into the sky when the rook of buzzards lifted off the roof of Mr. Mendoza’s house, lapping the pool of rain water that has collected in the dip in the sidewalk. Occasionally, he’ll glance up at me, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, and I laugh at him. He may not speak human words, but the language he has says one important thing: I’m here for you. I’m part of your world.
Izzy spends the weekend days and nights at my screen door, looking out on the street and letting me know if anyone comes too close to the house 🙂 He’s a guard dog as long as he’s behind the door, but if he’s out on the street, he just wants to meet all the new dogs in the neighborhood and greet those he already knows.
I spent Saturday writing, so I was in my office and looking out on the same street Izzy sees from his door. It’s early Fall and the day glowed with that special light autumn days embody. We made excuses for more walks than our usual, mostly because I needed to stretch after sitting in my office chair for so long — and Izzy had to see the people and “other beings” who had walked by the house during the day. The last week at 10 PM presented the gift of a star-filled sky, high-flying planes that competed with the brightest stars, and a glimpse of what I think was Venus near the half moon. I breathed deeply, sure that all was right within my world and comforted by the thought that there is so much more than what exists within the perimeters of Roxboro.
Izzy took his seat again on Sunday afternoon as I did my laundry and ironing. The weather, as gorgeous as Saturday’s, enticed more people to take a walk, and I really didn’t pay much attention to what was going on unless Izzy growled or did his squirrel dance (on his back two legs) in front of the door . . . until I heard a tinkle-clink-clank-tinkle-clink like a broken ice cream truck going by. Izzy came to where I stood at the ironing board, dancing and whining, then went back to the door as if trying to tell me something. Curious, I followed him and heard the sound but didn’t see anything. Still, he wouldn’t calm down.
A couple of minutes later, he still hadn’t calmed down and kept going to the back door, then coming to the dining room like he does when he wants to tell me to take him out. Though we had gone for a walk only half an hour before, I gave in and put him on the leash. He scrambled through my gravel driveway, choking on his collar and trying to get me to walk faster. I could tell he had picked up the scent of something and thought it was the groundhog we have in the backyard (that has pretty much destroyed my garden).
On the way down the street, Izzy was at “high alert” but I still didn’t see anything. Then a van coming toward us slowed down and stopped in front of us. The window rolled down and a heavyset, older woman in a flowered dress leaned out. “You might not want to walk up that way,” she said, motioning toward Izzy. “There’s a brown pitbull wandering around up there. He’s dragging a 6-8′ chain, so I think he got loose from someone’s yard. He’s kinda big. Your pup wouldn’t stand a chance.”
I thanked her and wondered whether it was the same one that my friend, the old man, was having trouble containing when Izzy and I walked earlier this week. Then I realized he never had a chain on that dog. And I realized instantly where the loose pitbull had come from. The night before when Izzy and I were out, I heard howling, barking and growling from beyond the railroad tracks. I’ve heard it before, and it’s obviously a group of dogs that are either caged or within close proximity of each other. I’ve seen several pitbulls with some rather large guys who walk them up my street and can barely hold onto the dogs when they see Izzy.
I think there’s a dogfighting ring close by . . . and I’m feeling two emotions: fear that my Izzy wouldn’t have a chance if any large dog became violent and compassion for those dogs who are chained up in a yard or made to fight when they should be in a loving home. Now my journalistic curiosity is aroused. I need to find out what’s going on.
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