ON SOME LEVEL
On some level Hershel knew that what he was about to do was wrong.
For more times than he cared to remember, Rhonda had grilled him on the rules of the neighborhood; no sniffing Mr. Crenshaw’s butt (the cat had two and half inch claws and was not afraid to use them), no eating out of Mrs. Clubiskys trash cans (her spaghetti and meatballs were known to produce uncontrollable amounts of gas), no lifting or squatting of legs on or around Mrs. Bolton’s flower gardens, particularly her prize roses (canine urine has been linked to several forms of rose bush fungus) and definitely, absolutely no chasing Big Billy Bilabob, the neighborhood paper boy. Unless of course it can be proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the he did with malicious intent, aim for and did hit your head when throwing the newspaper.
Being the obedient and copasetic dog that he was, Hershel did his best to abide by these rules whenever and wherever possible. And to the best of his knowledge, except for that time when he was having a very realistic dream in which he, not Milou’ the fox terrier, was Tinin’s true companion Snowy, and Big Billy Bilabob intentionally hit him on the head with the newspaper, and he’d woken up thinking he and Tintin were under attack and it was Hershel’s job to defend them against Nazi invaders, he had.
Yet today, in the course of his afternoon stroll through the neighborhood, he found himself faced with the agonizing responsibility of whether or not he could, or even should, break the greatest rule of them all; never, never, ever go into another dogs yard and …… you know…… evacuate your….., even the word made Hershel shake in his boots (if he’d had any, which, if little Melissa Pettigrew had her way, he’d be wearing by the end of the week).
You see Hershel’s human grandparents had come to stay for awhile and in the process of doing his best to make Mr. and Mrs. Lubosky feel right at home, he’d made an exception to his personal rule to never accept food scrapes from strangers. But you know how it is; a dog is doing their best to look stoic, regal even and along comes a person of distinction and bam! You’ve got fresh made lasagna with real mozzarella cheese (not that artificial stuff Connie’s humans use on their big box store, fake style pasta) and fresh grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (the one that Rachael Ray always talks about), with little bits of black olive peaking out and…….what’s a dog to do?
So this is Hershel’s dilemma; all that Italiano food had to go somewhere and according to Hershel’s digestive signal’s, it needed to go somewhere now, and Hershel was four blocks away from his own yard. And it wouldn’t matter if he flew as straight as an arrow towards his home because there were at least three; no make it four fences that were too darn tall for an English bulldog such as himself to make it over.
No, on many levels Hershel knew what he was about to do was wrong, but hey……a dog has gotta go when a dog has gotta go.
From the lap top of an uncensored dreamer,