Anything Lime



Thanks for your unsolicited advice, ass munch

If I could have one do over, it would be the way I reacted, or more accurately, didn’t react to the bully who called my dog fat at flyball practice this past weekend. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, my one do over would probably be that one time I tried to hitch hike from New Jersey to LA. I got as far as Tulsa before I was picked up by a guy called “Jub” who tried to carve his name into my back. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, some asshole called my dog fat.

Flyball seemed like the perfect way for Kya and me to spend some time together on the weekends, especially when Patrick is away. She’s fast, strong and is extremely competitive, so I thought this would be a great way to channel up all the energy she has that causes her to wake me up at 3:48 am just to say hi. I mean it, she’s all, “Hi mom. Whatcha doin? Wanna scratch my butt?” And I’m like, “Lie down puppy.” and she’s all “Ok. sounds good. You scratch my butt.”

The day started out great, and I was sure that we’d show up, Kya would catch on immediately and everyone would form a circle around us as they applauded and threw money. Kya and I would stand atop a spinning platform and wave to our fans as they cried and said, “this is the greatest day of my life!”

Ok, now, imagine the opposite of that. That’s how my Saturday went.

The drive to the practice building was horrifying for Kya. She dug deep into the foot well to hide from the apparent apocalypse that sealed all of our fates thunderstorm. We rushed into the building, nay, she dragged me like a rag doll tied to a moving truck, and she buried herself in the nearest corner, covered her face with her shaking paws and sang in fear for her life.

I explained as we ran through the building that it was our first time at flyball class, and I tried to bring them all up to speed as I flew by, my hair blowing in the wind and covering most of my face. “Sheeee’s scaaaaaared of the stooooooorm. Don’t woooorry… we’re fiiiiiiiiine!”

The flyball dogs were incredible to watch, well, at least when I could see as I watched from behind a desk where Kya was hiding. But even with a garbage can blocking half the course, it was awesome to see. One dog, a whippet named George, can complete the whole course in four seconds! For those of you not familiar with flyball, the course is a lane of three hurdles and a box at the end. In the box (looks like a ramp) is a ball. The dog must jump on the ramp, retrieve the ball and make it back over all three hurdles.

Kya and I started slow, by just making it onto the practice floor and taking an easy stroll over a few of the hurdles. She then went back to cowering, and dragged my flimsy body around on a floor full of dog drool, hair and sanitation spray to clean up little presents the dogs had left.

While the trainers and most of the participants were understanding about Kya’s phobia, one man, a man who was clearly overcompensating for something by naming his high-strung miniature pinscher “Sparticus,” came over to me and vomited all over my shirt. Really? that’s not what happened? I could have sworn that just as he walked up to me, horrible things began pouring out of his mouth. The most horrible of them being “your dog’s fat.”

“Does he need some water?” he asked, seeing that she was panting really quickly.

“Nah, she is not hot. She’s panting like this because she’s frantic. She’s really terrified of storms.”

“Oh. Is it because she’s overweight?”

<insert do over here>

Instead of sticking up for her, instead of fighting back, the tears welled up in my eyes and I said, defensively and weak, “She’s mixed with saint bernard. My vet said that she’s a good weight.”

“See this?” he said, pinching her skin, “She’s got a layer of fat under her skin. You should be able to feel every rib when you run your fingers over her side.”

“I can feel all her ribs.”

“Yeah, when you push in. Hard. She needs to drop some weight. One pound on your dog is like 10 pounds on you.”

“She probably could afford to lose a couple pounds, but who can’t?” Then I turned my body away, ended the conversation and went back to watching the dogs run the lanes.

I wish it would have happened like this:

“Does he need some water?” he asked, seeing that she was panting really quickly.

“Nah, she is not hot. She’s panting like this because she’s frantic. She’s really terrified of storms.”

“Oh. Is it because she’s overweight?”

“No, it’s because YOU TOUCH YOURSELF AT NIGHT! Get away from me, stay away from my dog or else I’ll drop kick Sparticus until you cry like a baby. Yeah, Sparticus, you want to talk about fat dogs…. let he who is without sin cast the first stone, bucko! Oh, and by the way, YOU HAVE AN UGLY FACE AND AN UGLY SOUL!”

The end.

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Comments

  1. * Willo says:

    I feel like *punch to babymaker* would also have been an acceptable reaction.

    | Reply Posted 9 years, 2 months ago


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