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Mangy Mutt Comes Back.
whiteclouder
Member Posts: 10,574 ✭✭✭
I was poking round some old floppies, cleaning them up for re-use, when I run on to this. Some of your older folks will recognize it. Still appropriate.
As a youngster I remember a scruffy, mongrel dog that came by the house from time to time. He wasn't very friendly but I've always had a soft spot for strays, so I tried to make him welcome. But he always managed to do something mean or nasty. He'd pick a fight with one of our other animals, foul the sidewalk, steal food or run off with something. When I 'd catch him he'd tuck his tail between his legs, crouch, dribble a little urine and bare his teeth like he was something to be taken seriously. After about a minute of such posturing, he would slink off to the end of the street and then turn and bark ferociously, safe with the distance. I persisted with my kindness until, one day, he just up and bit me as I handed him something to eat. Dad had been watching this trial over the course of a couple of weeks and when the dog bit my hand, he come over and sat down with me. And as I sat there feeling sorry for the dog and myself, Dad offered to explain another of life's lessons to me, one that I have remembered and pass on now to my children and their children.
He said there would always be a few contrary souls among us. They're that way because they've been badly mistreated and abused or because something is seriously wrong with their brains. He said it really couldn't be their fault; they wouldn't be that sorry and miserable by choice. Fortunately, he said, their number is limited and they do not too often confront us, but when they are around, they make life as miserable for others as they feel themselves. They tend to seek out their own kind and run in packs, thinking that being with like-minded creatures they would be afforded some sort of protection. In the end though, they turn on each other and kill the weak ones and then disperse, hoping to form another verminous liaison somewhere else. And it was true. I later saw that mangy hound slinking around the town garbage dump. He had changed a little but it was him all right, snapping and snarling at shadows and I watched as he bit himself for lack of something else to attack. Had he been mistreated or was it a dysfunctional brain that caused his misery? To this day I don't know. Does it matter one way or the other? Maybe.
I later wondered what kind of life a mangy mutt like that old hound must lead. Normal creatures have friends and family around and draw warmth and comfort from them. What about that scruffy, scab covered slinker down at the dump? I asked Dad. He shook his head and said, "Son, you really don't want to know." Being the inquisitive type, I persisted, and Dad finally told the awful truth of it. Creatures like that old dog keep coming back. He feels compelled to seek association with what he sees as his own kind. He's ostracized because there's festering within him some foul conglomeration of corruption that he has swallowed, scrounging around in the filth. Occasionally the need to be recognized overcomes his fear of rejection and he will again sneak out from the shadows and puke up a putrid offering of some kind, contorting his features in a slobbering grimace that he presents as a smile. He is avoided and ignored, not realizing he has again fouled himself. Eventually, he will creep back into the shadows once more, waiting for the day when the infection within finally kills him, which it must.
There was one last lesson Dad taught me on this subject and it's probably the most important part. He said you avoid being bitten by a craven dog by learning to recognize him from a distance. They come in all ages and gender, ethnicities and religions, colors and origin, backgrounds and circumstances. And I learned. Even after all those years, I still recognize that mangy mutt when I see him. Oh, yes indeed.
Clouder..
As a youngster I remember a scruffy, mongrel dog that came by the house from time to time. He wasn't very friendly but I've always had a soft spot for strays, so I tried to make him welcome. But he always managed to do something mean or nasty. He'd pick a fight with one of our other animals, foul the sidewalk, steal food or run off with something. When I 'd catch him he'd tuck his tail between his legs, crouch, dribble a little urine and bare his teeth like he was something to be taken seriously. After about a minute of such posturing, he would slink off to the end of the street and then turn and bark ferociously, safe with the distance. I persisted with my kindness until, one day, he just up and bit me as I handed him something to eat. Dad had been watching this trial over the course of a couple of weeks and when the dog bit my hand, he come over and sat down with me. And as I sat there feeling sorry for the dog and myself, Dad offered to explain another of life's lessons to me, one that I have remembered and pass on now to my children and their children.
He said there would always be a few contrary souls among us. They're that way because they've been badly mistreated and abused or because something is seriously wrong with their brains. He said it really couldn't be their fault; they wouldn't be that sorry and miserable by choice. Fortunately, he said, their number is limited and they do not too often confront us, but when they are around, they make life as miserable for others as they feel themselves. They tend to seek out their own kind and run in packs, thinking that being with like-minded creatures they would be afforded some sort of protection. In the end though, they turn on each other and kill the weak ones and then disperse, hoping to form another verminous liaison somewhere else. And it was true. I later saw that mangy hound slinking around the town garbage dump. He had changed a little but it was him all right, snapping and snarling at shadows and I watched as he bit himself for lack of something else to attack. Had he been mistreated or was it a dysfunctional brain that caused his misery? To this day I don't know. Does it matter one way or the other? Maybe.
I later wondered what kind of life a mangy mutt like that old hound must lead. Normal creatures have friends and family around and draw warmth and comfort from them. What about that scruffy, scab covered slinker down at the dump? I asked Dad. He shook his head and said, "Son, you really don't want to know." Being the inquisitive type, I persisted, and Dad finally told the awful truth of it. Creatures like that old dog keep coming back. He feels compelled to seek association with what he sees as his own kind. He's ostracized because there's festering within him some foul conglomeration of corruption that he has swallowed, scrounging around in the filth. Occasionally the need to be recognized overcomes his fear of rejection and he will again sneak out from the shadows and puke up a putrid offering of some kind, contorting his features in a slobbering grimace that he presents as a smile. He is avoided and ignored, not realizing he has again fouled himself. Eventually, he will creep back into the shadows once more, waiting for the day when the infection within finally kills him, which it must.
There was one last lesson Dad taught me on this subject and it's probably the most important part. He said you avoid being bitten by a craven dog by learning to recognize him from a distance. They come in all ages and gender, ethnicities and religions, colors and origin, backgrounds and circumstances. And I learned. Even after all those years, I still recognize that mangy mutt when I see him. Oh, yes indeed.
Clouder..
Comments
Edited by - 7mm nut on 04/25/2002 12:57:53
Could have saved yourself a bunch of writing if you had just taken the dog out back and put him down.
Munkey the mean-spirited
Don't worry about the bullet with your name on it, worry about the fragmentation grenade addressed 'To Occupant'.
PC=BS
Good piece of writing. Appropriate time for it too, I would think. Thanks for posting it.
SxS
PS I still enjoy the read.
Have guns,will travel
He is fast. he can run clean threw the trailer park lickity split.
He is a traind guard dog Rosie teached him.
Mite make a good bird dog.
The kids ar gonna train him.
Bulldaddy
I dont visit for a few days, and you guys are still beating the drum.
Whatever gets you up in the morning, I guess. Have fun.
A fine cigar gladdens the soul."Remember, there are only two: The Quick, and the Dead"
"What we have here... is Failure to Communicate"
Save, research, then buy the best.Join the NRA, NOW!Teach them young, teach them safe, teach them forever, but most of all, teach them to VOTE!
bulldaddy