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Something From The Past--Still Appropriate
whiteclouder
Member Posts: 10,574 ✭✭✭
Just a little story I wrote some years back and posted here on GB. Some will remember.
As a youngster I remember a scruffy, hairy, 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. Invariably, he 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, then 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'd slink off to the end of the street and, there, 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 me, he came over and sat down with me. 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.
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 figured it really couldn't be their fault; they wouldn't be that sorry and miserable by choice. Fortunately, he said, their numbers are limited and they do not confront us too often. 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, then disperse, hoping to form another verminous liaison somewhere else.
And it was true. Later that day I saw that hairy hound slinking around the town garbage dump, snapping and snarling at shadows. 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.
For a week I thought about that misery. Normal creatures have friends and family around, and draw warmth and comfort from them. What about that hairy, scab covered, slinker down at the dump? What kind of life must a mangy mutt like that old hound lead?
Curious, I asked Dad. He shook his head as he 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 filthy mutt keep coming back. They feel compelled to seek association with what they see as their own kind. They're ostracized, because there's festering within them some foul conglomeration of corruption that they've swallowed while scrounging around in the filth of their usual haunt. Occasionally, the need to be recognized overcomes their fear of rejection, and they will again sneak out from the shadows, and puke up a putrid offering of some kind, contorting their features in a slobbering grimace that they present as a smile. Then, avoided and ignored, not realizing they have again fouled themselves, they will creep back into the shadows once more, waiting for the day when the infection within finally kills them, 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 the old hairy hound when I see him. Oh, yes indeed.
Clouder..
As a youngster I remember a scruffy, hairy, 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. Invariably, he 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, then 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'd slink off to the end of the street and, there, 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 me, he came over and sat down with me. 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.
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 figured it really couldn't be their fault; they wouldn't be that sorry and miserable by choice. Fortunately, he said, their numbers are limited and they do not confront us too often. 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, then disperse, hoping to form another verminous liaison somewhere else.
And it was true. Later that day I saw that hairy hound slinking around the town garbage dump, snapping and snarling at shadows. 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.
For a week I thought about that misery. Normal creatures have friends and family around, and draw warmth and comfort from them. What about that hairy, scab covered, slinker down at the dump? What kind of life must a mangy mutt like that old hound lead?
Curious, I asked Dad. He shook his head as he 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 filthy mutt keep coming back. They feel compelled to seek association with what they see as their own kind. They're ostracized, because there's festering within them some foul conglomeration of corruption that they've swallowed while scrounging around in the filth of their usual haunt. Occasionally, the need to be recognized overcomes their fear of rejection, and they will again sneak out from the shadows, and puke up a putrid offering of some kind, contorting their features in a slobbering grimace that they present as a smile. Then, avoided and ignored, not realizing they have again fouled themselves, they will creep back into the shadows once more, waiting for the day when the infection within finally kills them, 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 the old hairy hound when I see him. Oh, yes indeed.
Clouder..
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