It has been a harrowing four days. Bev and I have been in a life and death struggle with Cujo the red eyed black lab. I don't know if his name is really Cujo. It is just my lame reliance on cliche evil dog names to describe my woes. However, he really is a black lab and he really does have red eyes, and he scares the crap out of me.
He is actually the evil half of a pair of labs that have started to visit our home during the middle of the night. These are dogs with serious boundary issues. Most importantly, they have befriended my dogs and think that it is appropriate to start playing some time after 3:00 a.m. We are just simple country folk. New York , New York
So Cujo starts barking for the Sharritt dogs, Henry, Hugo and Lucy (HHL for short) our two Jack Russels and an older Golden-Sheppard (to you city folks a Goldard or a Sheppden) mutt, to come out and play last Thursday/Friday morning at 3:00 a.m. It started last Thursday night with an unauthorized doggy play date between our dogs and these two black labs. I finally decided to acquiesce to the request at 5:00 my usual waking time.
It is interesting how those living the simple life and those in the fast lane cross paths at 5:00 a.m. From time to time, we are able to give shout outs on Facebook to each other as our awake moments pass like those two sheep dogs on the Wiley Coyote cartoons on Saturday mornings. "Good morning Fred." Good night Fred."
So play they did. Yelping and frolicking around the yard. In general, they were causing such a ruckus that it was time to shut down the party and bring HHL inside.
That is when the troubles began. I went out and called my dogs and they were having troubles concentrating on my commands. I managed to break through their hyperactive lack of attention. They wouldn't come in but at least they stopped running away so I went out and picked up Henry and brought him into the house. Well, that was unacceptable to Cujo. With bared teeth, raised hackles, and a bark that changed timber from fun loving frat boy into wife beating hill jack, he chased me back into the house. Off I ran tail between my legs and dog in my arms. Which meant that I still had a dog to go. Armed with the trusty kitchen broom I trudged back outside and rescued Hugo.
Thoroughly embarrassed and chastened, I abandoned all country boy pride and called the police. I always find it humiliating to have to dial 911 for things that need attention but aren't emergencies. I mean "trapped in house by a vicious and virulent red eyed dog" is not in the same league as my house is on fire. I have always had the philosophy that if you come upon a situation and the first words out of your mouth are "O shit!" then 911 is appropriate, but if the first words out of you mouth are "O crap" then let's develop a different number to call. Let's discuss the situation and you can send someone out in about 45 minutes or so. I can start some coffee to share when you get there. It gives me the opportunity to reflect and get my thoughts together.
That was not to be in this world of one size fits all emergency numbers. So I call and Officer Doty responds right away. I go out and explain the situation. He gets out of his car. He can see Cujo just in the periphery of his high beams; not barking, not growling just standing there, making a complete fool of me. I could hear the skepticism in his voice and tell by the way he sauntered over toward Cujo that he didn’t believe me. Walking off towards the house, I was sure that Saturday's Anderson's Herald would have "Sissy Ingalls man calls police to deal with supposedly barking dog" in the police blotter.
Thankfully Cujo did not disappoint. He took exception to Officer Doty coming between him and his friends and commenced to growling and barking and showing those glowing red eyes. I was also pleased to see that Officer Doty felt menaced and that the police blotter would read "Ingalls man calls police to subdue menacing red eyed virulent black lab." History is written by the victors.
Well the Ingalls police department does not arm their officers with kitchen brooms to ward off attacking dogs. They arm them with guns and tazers. I am about 100 yards away when I hear this pop and Cujo just start yelping and then everything goes silent. I am not ashamed to admit that I have cried during all of the great dead dog books; Old Yeller, Sounder, Where the Red Fern Grow. So I thought while it was maybe a little sad, I was not shedding any tears for this menace. Plus on the upside, I knew there would be no mention in the police blotter about a police action dog shooting. While relieved, I wasn't insensitive to the situation. I found a nice big empty dog food bag and took it out to the officer so Cujo would not bleed all over the back of the squad car.
I had to put on my best poker face though when I got out to officer Doty and there was no dog. "Where's the dog?"
"Oh I tazed him and he ran away."
"YOU TAZED HIM? YOU TAZED HIM? WHAT ABOUT JUST SHOOTING THE CRAZY DAMNED DOG, I THOUGHT?" I said, "I suppose that's best. There is a lot of paperwork to fill out when you shoot them."
"Nope, there is a lot of paper work when you taze them. There's a mountain of paperwork when you shoot them."
So I gave him the vital information for said paperwork. He encouraged me to call back if they returned and they would try to get animal control out to deal with the situation.
Saturday night rolls around and Cujo comes back at 3:00 a.m. This time I am not messing around. I dial 911 and say my piece. Out comes Deputy Conrad of the Sherriff's department. Deputy Conrad was a no nonsense cop that wasn't going to mess around. I could tell by his crisp neat uniform, his brightly polished shoes, his high and tight cropped hair cut. I could tell that he meant business by the way he shined his million candle spotlight at Cujo. I could also tell that he wasn't going to get out of the cruiser to chase any dog at 3:00 a.m. across dew covered grass in spit shined shoes.
"You know you could shoot the dog yourself, don't you?"
"Kinda, but some people get weird when a civilian discharges a weapon."
"Well good luck. Call us if you need us."
That's what I had done. I had called. I had followed the rules. I hadn't taken matters into my own hands. I had abandoned the inner tough guy in me and in the end was still left with the problem. It seems like there is a lot of that these days. Waiting for shovel ready jobs, waiting for someone to say that storm's getting close, you had better get out of here, waiting for someone to stop spending money that we don't have, and waiting for them fix problems that they can't fix. And in the end, we're just left with a long story about our own incompetence.
Take Care
Roger
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