Monday, October 04, 2004

I am walking down my street toward the entrance to my apartment. Approaching me is a slight girl of around 17 years old, being yanked around trippingly by the ginger-coated pit bull she's got on a leash. The pit is beaming beatifically like only pits can, her delight in people and walking and sniffing and all else except probably cats visible from 30 yards away. She's got a great demeanor, that's obvious, but she's terribly trained. Her owner has no control of her pulling, and the pair are lurching wildly.

As they approach me, I grin at the grinning pup, but step away from her as she lunges toward me to say hello, since my clothing is light-colored and dry-clean only. The dog's owner, who had been smiling at me, suddenly shifts to a sneer and spits "She's friendly" with no small dose of contempt. See, the girleen thought I was afraid of her dog, due to the breed in question. So what mordant, caustic reply did I give her? With which exact words did I humble her, discredit her surpremely faulty assumption, and impugn her dog-training skills all at once?

I got no words out at all. So aggrieved was I that my mouth worked silently, my brow furrowed into inch-deep chasm but without an accompanying vocalization. Nothing. She continued down the block and continued being brutally whiplashed about by her dog, and I returned home, defeated and misjudged.


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