...but the neighbors' horse *does* give me the jeebies

A dark, imposing creature lurks in the yard next door. Some brazenly claim it’s actually a dog, but no other dog I’ve ever met has his head at my shoulders when standing on all fours. Most Dogs don’t usually pierce fences with golden hollow eyes hovering over charcoal snouts. And dogs don’t usually howl like an entire pack of wolves, with conviction, at random, for no reason. Well, maybe they do; I’ve never owned a dog. But many people with more pedigree than I have all agreed that the neighbors’ breed (whatever it is) must instead be some kind of quarter-horse mix.

Now I do get along with the big ol’ boy ("Crusoe") just fine. Whenever the wind knocks the tarp off my ’88 T-bird, (weekly), he casually stands sentinel while I drag and tug and yank and tuck and cojole the blasted thing into a carefully and further-refined position, thinking THIS time it’s on there for good. He pants contentedly and eagerly awaits a pat on the head, which I give – cautiously. When we moved in, I promptly diverted one of the many coming Lowe’s trips to the grocery instead, picking up a bag of meat-flavored peace offerings. My daughter even feeds them to him - carefully. So we all have sort of a nice understanding. He's a Marmaduke of sorts.

But he does like to remind me who the real top of the local food chain is, via means that successively escalate.

I mean, having a dog nearly look you in the eye (and by means of illustration, I’m a healthy 5’11”) is one thing.

It’s another thing entirely when he brings his Tug-of-War-Chew-Ropey-Toy-Thingy to you and whines for a nice game over the top of the fence, which you oblige with amused gusto… until survival instinct kicks in so that your arm (and if you’re lucky, only just your arm and not your entire fat-ass self) doesn’t go flying over the fence - and you let go.

And it’s a very unnerving thing indeed when a harmless child’s game takes a turn for Darwinism. Like when a beautiful springtime afternoon connives you into letting the child-spawn run free in the yard, while you go find the kickball. You know the tough, multicolored, rubbery kind, slightly larger than a basketball, that you get for two or three bucks at any supermarket this time of year? You find it and decide to dazzle your four-year-old daughter with an awesome display of BEHOLD MY DADDY MIGHT! But in this moment (like always) you instead possess the athletic aptitude of saltines, and rather than line-kicking the ball to your waiting daughter, you drop-kick it with a slice that sails 15 yards sideways into the neighbors’ property instead.

Curses!

This of course upsets your little girl but gets the “Dog” excited about the big mysterious new toy that just came his way. He’s nosing and pawing excitedly and manages to clumsy it into a nearby bush on his side of the fence, back within your reach. Make that rake-assisted reach.

Except when you extend the rake to scoop the ball out of the bush into your arm's reach, the Dog manages to get it first and picks it up. With. His. Mouth.

Imagine a dog with a basketball fully ensnared within its jaws. And if that's not disturbing enough, let me ask: is your head bigger than a basketball?

Didn’t think so!

Methinks it’s time to restock the peace-offering stash, just in case. And maybe get some raw bacon just for good measure. I mean, he didn’t actually pop the ball...

...but I'm not signing my girl to a soccer league any time soon...!