These Are the Dogs in My Neighborhood (for Now)
June 17, 2012 § Leave a comment
We like dogs, the friendly kind moreso than the snarling, growling kind, particularly some of the dogs who live very nearby. They feel like familiar friends, just like the local kids, from the two-year-old two doors down who once followed me home, to the pre-teen who I found sobbing and hiding underneath a chair in the hallway one Saturday night.
Our dog neighbors run the spectrum, from the pricey purebreds to rescues. She’s pretty new, but we’ve started to run into a Shar-Pei, who always looks like she’s late for an important meeting. All business.
The first time we saw her, Scott squealed,
“Where are your ears?!”
The dog’s owner rolled his eyes.
And somewhere my brain, my synapses switched tracks so that my memory transformed this exchange to, “Where are your eyebrows?” and I have often chuckled at the memory because dogs? DOGS DON’T HAVE EYEBROWS BECAUSE ALL DOGS HAVE EYEBROWS. I brought this up recently and Scott pointed out my memory’s trick and that no, by the way, he isn’t an idiot. But still, whenever I think about dog eyebrows, I chuckle.
There’s also a standard black mutt, probably part German shepherd and part lab? Long hair, all black, as close as you can come to a wolf. One morning recently, Black Dog came around a corner in front of her owner, and I didn’t see the leash and I thought to myself:
Oh. This is how it ends for me.
But luckily split-seconds pass quickly, and the owner appeared and off he and Black Dog went, though Black Dog did look back at me and lick her lips, and I know she was thinking Yes, you do look delicious.
My favorite dog is Ginger. I don’t actually know anymore if her name is really Ginger, or if my brain just decided that she looks like a Ginger so she must be a Ginger (and I think I’ve already demonstrated that lately, my memory is a little unreliable, though I’m not quite Leonard Shelby, yet). She’s all greyhound, long spindly legs and pointy nose.
We also call her The Supermodel.
All that’s missing is a designer bag and a famous boyfriend.
The best part about The Supermodel a.k.a. Ginger is I can wind her up. From down the hall, or across the parking lot, a quick side-to-side shake of my head, and Ginger’s head cocks and her muscles coil. From that far away, she’s alert enough to know that I WANT TO PLAY. Sadly, I don’t think her owners would be cool with me wrestling her to the ground, as much as I want to.
The hard thing about living vertically is that the dogs come and go without warning. There was a pug before, and a Pomeranian, and one day both were just gone. When that happens, I’ll be a bit sad, because I’m emotionally attached to The Supermodel.