It is now May in our sleepy village. Winter is quiet here. There are no children, only adults who have traveled far on life’s road and have settled for a simpler, slower life. Foley called them the prune people: Their diets consisting of food to keep the plumbing moving and their skin shriveled by age. I call them the zombies, as they walk by each day, aimlessly, searching for what I do not know.
Winter muffles all sound, except for the occasional snow blower; but spring brings the frogs singing their love songs, the constant sound of lawn mowers humming somewhere in the distance, and finally the sound of a Pocket dog roaming her territory again.
Yes, I am out, I am loud, and I am loving it.
I bark at everything. Zombies walking (they may give me attention), Zombies walking dogs (I half want them to play with me, and half want them out of my neighborhood), Zombies working in their yards, dogs tied up in their yard (to say hi to the dogs and to berate their parents for leaving their dogs tied to a tree) and to anything new in the area (I remember how everything was on my last walk and bark if something new is there.)
My parents try to quiet me. They have talked to trainers who recommended noise to distract me. They tried a spray bottle that made a noise. I didn’t hear it. When I bark the sound in my head is very loud. Then they tried to get my attention with a water bottle. I appreciated being cooled if in the middle of my walk. Another trainer said to use a special command that is not used at any other time. My parents chose “Un-huh.” I went bark, bark, bark, they went “un-huh, un-huh, un-huh” until we turned into our own rhythm section “Bark, un-huh, bark, un-huh, un-huh, un-huh, bark.” They have even tried a soft kick on the butt which stops me for a second, to bark at the foot, but I am right back to it. (Don’t worry, it is a gentle kick, if it were hard I would write a ten blog series about being suffering from dog abuse).
I am not the only family member who causes unrest in the development when we walk. Daddy has declared war on poopie bags. “Why won’t these damn bag separate? What are they glued together? I can’t even find the perforation. Finally, I found it. Christ, which end is the opening? The damn thing won’t open! What am I just supposed to pick it up using the side of the bag? I hate this thing?”
“Bark, bark, bark.”
“Un-huh, un-huh, un-huh.”
I am sure there are a lot of complaints at the manager’s office.
I hope when we are asked to leave because of all the noise we make our next neighborhood is this nice.
Now I need to get back to my rounds.
Bark, bark, bark, bark.
