I have a little dog. He’s a barrel-chested, bow-legged little white weirdo with an Orc-like underbite and a wonderful, friendly demeanor. He’s a rescue; he was found on the streets of the San Gabriel Valley wandering alone, and I adopted him from the good and kind people at Good Dog-Dog Talk. I named him Oliver Reed because he sort of looks like the Werewolf of London, and also because he drinks a lot and gets into these unstoppable humping fits.
Oliver is a good guy, and he’s my best friend. He’s the sweetest dog you could hope to meet; I stopped taking him to the dog park because rather than run with the other pups he would cuddle up with the other owners to get and give love. I was taking him there for exercise, not to two-time me! Oliver just wants to get pet and to cuddle up with you. He loves everybody.
But there are some things he just hates. He flips out over certain things – he flips out over bigger dogs, for instance. He loses his mind when motorcycles ride by. And this morning he went fucking berserk on his morning walk when the big street sweeping Zamboni came down my block. He was barking and jumping in the air, almost flipping over as he hit the tension point on the leash. Here’s this little dog (he’s 16 pounds but should be like 12. I know, I’m a bad dad) trying to KILL this one ton metal monstrosity going down the street.Continue reading “My Dog Vs The Street Sweeper”