Ferocious

If you're here much, you've no doubt spied photos of Lola the dog. She's a big part of the family and the focus of much of Kate & Sarah's affections. She has horrible separation anxiety and often eats things we care about while laying on other things we care about subsequently destroying both, if we don't properly puppy proof before leaving her home alone. But we love her. She's a big mush and constant companion. She and I have walked, no doubt, hundreds of miles together in her lifetime.

Lola was conceived at the home of an abusive backyard breeder. Her mother was about a year and a half old and on her 3rd litter by the time she was brought to the rescue where Lola was born. When she came to the rescue, her mother didn't know how to play, had a scar on her forehead from being grazed by a bullet and was terrified of all men. The "breeder" bred all his boxers together indiscriminately, which resulted in some dogs that really don't look much like boxers. Lola is primarily white and her face is not smooshed in like that of the boxer archetype. Because she has short, white hair a lot of my neighbors think she's a pitbull. As we walk down the street together, Lola on her slack leash by my side, sniffing everything we pass, I am often asked "does your dog bite?" I've had people dramatically pull their children clear across the street as we approached together, people yell from down the street for me to hold off my dog, numerous children inquire as to whether she fights, and one guy yelled to us that if there were an Ugliest Dog competition, Lola will win hands down.

Today Lola and I were taking a walk at lunchtime. As we made our way home I passed a portly fellow sitting in his car. He had a giant, hot pink hair pick thrust into his do in a manner that called to mind the random debris that lodges shockingly into trees when tornadoes blow through. He appeared to be in his late 30s which made the hair pick look especially absurd. I expect that look from a 15-year-old. As we passed by Lola was heeling impressively. She usually does at the end of a walk when she's wearing down. He gave Lola a look and I steeled myself. Then he said "Is your dog ferocious?"

I said "no" out loud but in my head I completely lost it. "Not as ferocious as that hair pick that attacked you" I snapped back, mentally. I allowed my brain to indulge in the image of me ripping that hot pink bit of pointy plastic out of his head and beating him with it. Truth be told, I'm a lot more violent than my dog. I'm so sick of those idiots.