If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Prometheus must be a blood relative. At the least, if this morning’s abbreviated session at obedience school is any indication, he certainly displays a Stern-like knack for brewing trouble.
I’d enrolled the mutt at a doggy boot-camp run by a woman out of her home. By the time we arrived, several other “students” and their owners had already gathered at a staging area. In the twenty or so minutes afforded me to evaluate the facility before getting run off the premises, I thought the operation impressive.
Prometheus immediately took a shine to a Hairless Chihuahua named “Jill.” I couldn’t take my eyes off her either, but for different reasons. After one glance I opined to myself: this has to be the ugliest friggin dog I’ve ever seen, especially with that ginormous mole on its forehead! Then I registered a sudden hush within earshot. A moment later, Jill’s owner commenced berating me for my insensitive and rude statements about her beloved pet. Once again, my faithless tongue had betrayed me.
After Jill’s owner finished her oration, focused largely on my place at the bottom of the evolutionary scale, she and I both noticed a plaintive whining from below. We gazed down, only to spy Prometheus making an extremely forward and highly inappropriate attempt to introduce himself to Jill. As I pried him off Jill’s posterior, I made a mental note to self (and this time I kept it to myself): If this is an example of Prometheus’ taste in women, I better get him neutered ASAP; cause there’s no way I’m bringing home the mole-headed, ass-ugly puppies this idiot’s likely to father!
Meanwhile, as I ruminated over veterinary appointments, Prometheus managed to extricate himself from his harness and began racing around the compound like a rabid squirrel. Every other dog but one started barking madly in response. The exception was “Fenric,” the school operator’s enormous ancient German Shepherd, who sprawled motionless on a nearby mat imitating road-kill. On our arrival, his owner had informed all present to simply ignore the untethered beast, claiming solely an act of God could get the old dog to lift his head off the mat (much less expend energy attacking any other animal).
God must have an odd sense of humor. After a few circuits around the enclosure, Prometheus suddenly made a beeline toward Fenric. Upon reaching the supine codger, my little Shitty — in what I can describe only as a canine version of a drive by — bit Fenric squarely on the balls and then paused briefly to admire his handiwork. Seconds later, as the owner’s husband “escorted” Prometheus and me from the premises, I heard Fenric’s owner telling one of her customers that she hadn’t seen her dog move so much or so fast in years.
The moment before the storm