From the dense fog of a cool spring morning three figures emerge, moving at incredible speed; one of them visibly disgusted, a clothespin clamped on its nose...That would be me, the unwitting participant of a most dreadful game - one that seasoned dog owners will recognize: The attack of the Klingons. No, this is not a fun, fantasy filled Star Trek episode reenacted. Instead, it is likely the least pleasant ritual a dog owner must endure.
Dogs eat grass. A plethora of theories exist that explain why. I'm not certain which is true, but that is of no concern to me. They just eat grass. And not the neatly trimmed grass of the lawn; instead they dine on select free-range blades of field grass. And I'll be damned if they don't eat them just like spaghetti! I watch Sola as a blade disappears in her snout like a snake tongue.
I never do get a chance to catch it and pull it back out. The dogs are usually not afforded the time to consume sufficient quantities to cause gastric distress, so they don't hack up yellow grass balls in your shoes like the cat does. They just sneak these grass noodles in, as I hear (from behind me) the zip of another blade going down the hatch and turn to see Nigel next to a well trimmed patch of weeds looking content, and guilty as can be. I get pissed when they do this and drag them inside.
I know it sounds mean, but I'm no joy burglar. I am just fully aware of what awaits me...
It's a beautiful spring morning, birds singing, sun burning off the fog that had set in overnight. Nigel, Sola and I stop to take huge gulps of the spring air that rolls across the lawn from the stream that winds past the house. It's the kind of morning that makes you feel as though you might take on the world and win if you tried. Then your dog crushes your spirit.
My mother will choke me when she sees the Waterford candlesticks she gave us used in this context.
Nigel and Sola part ways when they need to "drop off a few friends", and I strain my eyes to keep them both in my field of vision. I know they enjoy their privacy, but I have to be on the lookout. While I wait for Nigel to get started, Sola finishes her biz and springs from behind a bush. I go pale at once.
Sola is not alone. Flapping behind her is an unwanted passenger. My good friend the grass noodle has been resurrected and is hanging half out of the dog, a chocolate donut hole attached. As I retreat from Sola, Nigel swings around, his own stench weapon making an arc toward my leg. I engage the thrusters as I am forced to dance like a football player working the tires; knees carried high, dogs dancing, putrescent munchkins swinging behind them. I am on the holodeck of hell, and the door is locked tight.
I seek out a big leaf in the midst of this bizarre stink dance. What follows is exactly as you might imagine. There is no joy in this - I'd rather spend the next year sitting atop an Iranian nuclear reactor than pulling grass noodles from the dogs.
You have to attack quickly or the rear third of your dog will be spotted like a Leopard. The enemy must be extracted with precision. Pull too slowly and you'll be overtaken by the polluted air around you. Yank too quickly and your dog will never forgive you for the paper cut-like wound you'll inflict with that big blade of grass that taunts you from nether regions.
Laugh all you want if you are not a dog owner. If you are, heed this advice: Avoid tall grass, collect large leaves and carry a clothespin. Never, ever eat donut holes, at least not the chocolate ones with a blade of grass in them. And keep your photon torpedoes locked and loaded.
We'll be seeing you on the holodeck...
Mine Enemy
Nigel: Did someone just floss me?!?
Sola: Please pass the Novocaine, I have something like a paper cut.
