Thankful it’s not colder than it is this morning. Houses in the Deep South don’t take kindly to temperatures below the twenties. There are no basements. Water pipes run through attics and crawl spaces.
The Retired Old Farts Neighborhood Dog Walker’s Club, of which I am a member, is normally a peaceful group. Trouble, when it happens, is usually caused by non-dog owners.
There weren’t any other dog walkers out this morning. Of course, my spouse chimed in with, “There wasn’t anybody else crazy enough to walk in this cold weather.” Before I retired, I worked outside in weather much colder than this.
Jack, real name not used, is a notorious, mercurial, neighborhood non-dog owner. Rocky, however, is a real cocker spaniel. It was a pleasant January day, when Jack, accompanied by his son, rolled up on his golf cart.
Without so much as a friendly hello–Jack went straight for the jugular. “Why don’t you people walk your dogs through your own neighborhood?” Jack shouted. “We’re tired of all the dog crap.”
Sam, blindsided–looked up from bagging Rocky’s droppings. Rocky, his black cocker spaniel, was gentle, wouldn’t hurt a fly. “This is a public street,” Sam answered–waited to see where the conversation led.
It was an unfair attack, from the same man that previously attempted to run down an unleashed nuisance dog, from a nearby trailer park, with his car.
Gizmo, the dog in question, was no longer around. Problems arose when “free-range” owners let their dogs run loose. Presently, there is a white pit bull, that roams freely after numerous complaints to the sheriff’s office.
Jack attempted to goad Sam into an argument. Sam, wisely didn’t fall for it. Jack’s flare-up blew away, just like the previous ones.