Double Entendre

My sweet little furball was attacked a few years ago at a dog park. By another dog. You might be surprised how often I've had to clarify that last bit, which has made me wonder how often it is that dogs are attacked by something other than a dog (a human?) at a dog park. Odd. Even though his sliced ear and face eventually healed, the incident (pig squeals and all) managed to permanently scar me.

I'm pretty confident he senses my fearful vibe, which only exacerbates his tendencies to sometimes growl and bare teeth, making him a prime candidate for another attack. It's a nervous affair altogether, but dog park we occasionally still do (gotta keep him socialized)... not at fenced-in parks (oh no), but we'll usually give it a go if 5 or fewer dogs are gathered in a spacious spot.

Like the baseball diamond conveniently located near my place. A few dogs and owners tend to meet there, despite the giant "NO DOGS ALLOWED" signs surrounding it. This makes me feel a bit like those obnoxious parents I'm prone to scowl at, the ones who ignore the signage asking them not to let their little bulls loose in a China shop. Hypocrisy is so uncool. Anyhow, while the dogs get their chase on, the pepes mill about and chat amongst themselves. Except for me.

I'm usually so distracted by my determination to head off another unlikely (but potential) attack that I end up coming off a bit nervous and weird. And so, despite the seemingly friendly scenario, "making friends" is pretty much an impossibility. Yesterday evening was a prime example....

Monsieur Quincampoix (my dog's alias) was getting along quite nicely with a small beagle blend sporting a human Cubs jersey (too uncool for a bully), a ginormous black German Shepard (too slow to elicit terror), and a non-descript mutt about his own size (too interested in people to pose a threat). The aforementioned four-leggers were owned by two-legged guys aging from their early thirties to late fifties. We masters grouped on one side of the ballpark, where things were going just swimmingly.... until... the oldest guy pulled a treat from his pocket and placed it in Mr. Quincampoix's mouth before I could bleat out a frantic "STOP!" and warn that the delicate flower is allergic to just about every protein under the sun. Sensitive dog for sensitive owner. Too late, I watched as the ipecac made its way down Mr's hatch, scolding the man in my head. The treat a mere apéritif for Mr., he proceeded to skulk around all the guys in a desperate search for more...

That's when I said it. Distracted by the thought of a pending vomit attack, I said:

Of course, now he's all over everyone wondering if all you guys have stuff in your shorts.

Direct quote. Cringe. Silence from the guys, who (I can only imagine) all have "stuff in their shorts."

In an attempt to make it better I made it worse by adding:

You know, looking for treats hidden in your pockets.

Doh. More silence. Shuddering, I looked around for help and wondered how quickly I could lasso the dog and bolt. Something stopped me from doing what comes natural (putting a spotlight on the innuendo and getting a laugh out of it). I love that shit, and so do most of my dirty-minded friends and coworkers. But since these guys were strangers whose dog acquisition stories were riddled with "we," I opted for shushing myself. Probably a good call, albeit common.

Shortly after I made everyone think about their privates, the guys started talking sports (naturally, they've got stuff in their shorts), and I, alienated, waved good-bye and slunk away with my own imaginary tail between my legs.

No comments: