WRITER - The Province -
December 28th, 2007
Some years ago I worked for a psychotic lunatic.
He invited me to his home one afternoon to discuss my contract.
I was greeted by a Doberman pinscher the size of a Kingsway motel. The creature was catapulting off the walls of the kitchen and making noises only heard in dreams.
I told him to put the dog in the yard.
He said, “But, David, what’s the problem? He’s in obedience school.”
I said, “Call me when he graduates.”
This madman had applied for, and been refused, a license to carry a firearm.
Shouldn’t he be required to take a dog-training course? Shouldn’t harbouring a dangerous dog be prohibited?
My neighbourhood has gone to the dogs.
Two doors over, there is blind old Sasha. She’s a waddling German shepherd who spent years howling like a coyote.
Dogs can barely see. From ten feet away, most of us just look like cardboard cutouts at a PNE photo booth. To make up for this deficiency, dogs have extraordinary powers of hearing and smell. It is said that a dog’s olfactory sensitivities are 6 times that of your average sous chef.
Sasha, seeing David’s Shadow in the window of his kitchen, howled and howled. Over the last decade, I called the Dog Police three times when I couldn’t take it anymore. Each time, they warned Sasha’s owner, a lovely woman and a gifted artist, to control the beast or else.
Now, poor old Sasha is just too tuckered to be bothered yodelling. She lolls about on the back deck with this look on her face that says something like, “Go ahead, and make your tea. Rinse your dishes. My bawling days are behind me.”
No matter. Just in time, Sasha has been replaced by Apollo, the Airedale across the lane. Or should we say, Airhead.
Apollo’s masters are nice people too. They just don’t have Clue One about Dogs in the City.
Apollo barks in the morning. Apollo barks in the afternoon. Apollo barks at night. Have I had a meal in the last year without Apollo’s cacophony?
The dear old couple drive away in their SUV leaving Airhead to screech his grievances for an hour or two. What do they care? They’re shopping or at the dentist.
A few doors west, we have the Two Giant Poodles. I like to call them Rosy and El Diablo. Rosy is quieter than a pincushion. El Diablo never met a passer-by he didn’t want to devour.
Most of us on the block get a little a hint of Michael Vick in our eyes when we speak of these creatures.
On my walk this morning, I encountered several truck-sized canines. I recognized a boxer, who stared and drooled at me for much too long, and something resembling a tyrannosaurus rex, which was, of course, not on a leash.
Lately there have been few sightings of that rare bird for Vancouver known previously as the Responsible Dog Owner.
So here’s my New Year’s wish.
May all dog owners be required by law to take a dog-training course before being granted a license to make the rest of our lives miserable with their neglect.
Happy New Year! Grrrrrr….
