On fighting with a racist group of canines.

One of my life changes this year has transformed me into a Walk-and-see-more, obviously this is due to me being Carlos.  I’ve been fortunate enough to discover someone at the office who was looking for someone to share petroleum expenses on the trip to work and back.  Luckily for her, my car was stolen and I so happened to be the person prepared to pay towards her transit costs.  So every morning I am out of bed by 6.45am (holy fuck balls! Anyone who knows me knows how much of a not morning person I truly am, this is a feat in itself) and am out of the house, walking down the street to meet Veen at the corner of the street by 7.15am.

Look, it sucks mostly but there are one or two perks such as the opportunity to perve on the dude across the street who gets his (insanely fine) self out of bed to unlock the gate for his mother every moring. In his boxers. There’re also other pros like birds tweeting, early morning sunshine and other shit like that.  Sadly though, there are a million and one little fucking dogs in every yard who demonstrate their contempt for me walking past their territorial gate by yapping endlessly.  These little shits completely mess with my new found early morning mojo, so I’ve taken to the habit of yapping right back at the canine wannabes.

Usually it shuts them up enough to lose interest in the weird girl listening to her tunes via headphones whilst tweeting away bitching about the sand between her toes, or the rain drops between the boobs.  This afternoon however, one little jack russel had quite clearly signed up to Canine Fight Club while I was at work today because on the stroll home from the corner, as I yapped back at him, instead of simply losing interest and backing down this little fucker started howling at me.  So I did what any other normal person would do. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned to face his fence, undid my earphones and I howled right the fuck back at him, which in turn encouraged his little bastard dog friends to join in on the howling.

Sidenote:  I’m training them, see.  So that I can have a morning stroll in peace one of these fine days.

So there I was standing at the gate, howling on top volume with my scary face firmly in place, determined not to back down until these asshole dogs shut up.  I could sense it was coming soon, the back down, their cowardice, their admittance of defeat… until the hottie pulled back his bedroom curtains and shouted over the noise:

Hottie: Can I help you?

Me: Err, um, ahem.  I’m fine, sorry.  *Cough*

Hottie: You know you were howling, right?  At dogs.  Small ones.

Me: I uhhhh, I was just making friends with them, see?

I smile at the useless nice little dog just in time for him to suddenly cower and stick his tail between his legs, ears folded back – mocking me, his eyes screaming “beat this you evil bitch”, the fucking show off.

Hottie: Good job, you know, howling at small puppies.    You don’t even look weird doing it [Ed:  I sensed just a tad bit of sarcasm somehow].

Needless to say, I think the magic between us is gone.  No longer will I be able to mentally lick the hottie’s biceps with guiltless pleasure.  My morning mojo is forever misplaced.  And I can hear his fucking dogs are still howling at me as I type this.


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