Underground Turf Wars, A Dog Fight

Turf wars fought nightly have left our residents wounded and bleeding. Blondie's right front pastern is swollen with a deep puncture. She let me clean it with peroxide yesterday. As I stood straddle of her with my head inches above hers, my thoughts were with people I've seen at shows who have their necks and faces bit for less.
Blondie tolerated the scrubbing of her war wound, but I sensed she was ready to enforce her limit should I cross it. She's putting very little weight on it, needs cleaning again today.

Stormy's right ear is all chewed up. The hair on his neck is matted with blood. He’s at the bottom of our driveway and our neighbor's dog, Bluto is up here strutting around like the boll weevil, who found a home.


Closed gates and complete fencing are not the rule here, so the line gets blurred as to neighbor's dog verses street dog. Bluto has always stayed in his yard or right in front of his house; he's a home boy. Why would he leave home to hang with a couple of spayed bitches and be pissing all over my house? His actions tell me he is saying, "Mine, mine, and mine!"


During the night I saw Bluto curled up in a ball sleeping on our porch. He has a small healing tear in his sheath, which leaves his wanker exposed a bit. I need to talk to my neighbor to find out why his dog left home. This should be good.


Meanwhile, here comes Stormy up the hill. His slow, deliberate steps tell me how much he objects to Bluto's trespass. Stormy's path to the larger dog is not direct; he stops to cover Bluto's scent markings.


Bluto stands at the top of my car port ramp, growling a low controlled grumble. Stormy circles his way ever closer; it's like Popeye's little doot-ta-doot; it's coming.


Stormy's strides look well rehearsed like stylized samurai. When he arrives, it is by Bluto’s right side facing the same direction. Their butts are four inches apart, so close. Their heads are forty-five degrees apart, Stormy is barking, “Ruff, ruff, ruff.” He doesn’t look at Bluto, who is growling. Bluto’s eyes are on the exit into the tall grass, where he heads in that stiff legged way of walking; that says, “Watch-it stiff legs here!” And he’s gone into the grass.