Saturday, June 15, 2013
New Day New Dog by Chi-Ping
Five in the morning with the grey of day barely invading the dark, my eyes opened, my nose caught scent of a new interloper. Blondie and I jumped up barking, let us out! Unlike the big German Sheppard bitch ensconced on our porch since last night when mother fed her, this was coming from the hill above us through the banana trees. We must get out to defend our supplies before this creature arrives and is fed.
Racing from window to window barking woke mom. She padded down the hall telling us good morning. Robert Redford and Lucky howl in the bathroom, as we pass the door she says she’ll be back for them in a second. She opens the front door. The big bitch tries to get in past Blondie, who snaps her back with authority. No time for you, we’re off to chase a new threat away. I give her a few good snaps of my teeth to let her know what's coming if she’s not gone when we get back. The miserable mutt with blood oozing out of legs ravaged by mange puts her ears back, but doesn't move.
I race down the driveway barking, but Blondie cuts around the house and up the hill; squealing and screaming a white dog not too much smaller than Blondie runs into the thick grass in search of safety. I bounce up the steep face as quickly as my little legs can thrust me forward, ready to deliver a decisive blow, but Blondie walked out of the woods calmly; it’s gone. We sniff around the perimeter of our property checking for stowaways.
The big sable German Sheppard bitch has finished breakfast. Mom sprayed her legs with the stuff she uses on Lucky’s mange and she’s playing on the porch with Lucky and Robert Redford when we get back. Blondie’s hackles are up, but she’s not sure what to do. She knows that once mom starts feeding something we’re supposed to accept it. The door opens, so we head in the house for breakfast.
The big ugly bitch is playing on the porch with our puppies, while mom prepares breakfast for her and poppy. Depression sneaks up on me as I lie on the sofa with my head between my paws wondering how many dogs they can feed. What are we to do about all these dogs?
I got so upset thinking about this that when the cat jumped on the sofa I snapped at him. All hell broke loose, mom raised her voice to me. She never does that. I forgot her rule, nobody snaps at the cat.
People, when dogs show up with collars, they’re not street dogs, they’re discards. Mom says Puerto Rican people are loving. So who are these people that throw out good dogs? Where do they come from? This is mean; it’s cruel. What people do this?