I walk the dog up Elm Street in hopes that we’ll pass this one house where this Boxer named Oscar lives. Oscar is a little fat, but that just means there is more of him to love since he’s a real people dog, friendly as a pedophile with kids, and just plain happy to be alive. I’m hoping that Xylo will take to him and maybe learn to come all the way up to folks instead of stopping at a distance of three feet and staring off into nowhere until petted.
Oscar is home. I can hear him barking inside the house. His owners, however, are not. As punishment for their absence, Oscar claws the paint of the window seals and tangles the blinds while Xylo pee’s on their shrubs.
It’s unseasonably warm, so other people are out. Xylo is wearing his dinosaur coat and that makes onlookers interested. Walking a greyhound at all tends to get interest because it’s one of those breeds you know a lot about but rarely see in person
For example, while Xylo is taking a crap, this one lady walks up to us with her kid. Before they arrive, I’m glued to Xylo’s bowel movement for reasons that, when I write them down, make absolutely no sense to me. People say that dogs are members of the family, but I don’t remember ever watching any other member of the family take craps like I watch Xylo. My wife and I have been married for going on four years now, seen each other naked, sick, filthy, and we still don’t want to watch the other defecate. But here I am, watching Xylo like it’s pay-per-view, encouraging him to go big or go home. Then, when he’s done, I feed him. I mean, think about that, here is a dried up bone biscuit for bending a fresh one on the neighbors yard. I’m so proud of you, eat up.
“Is that a greyhound,” says the lady while Xylo kicks grass over his latest deposit.
“Yes,” I say as proudly as man with a bag over his hand picking up, what looks to be healthy, dog shit can.
“He’s beautiful,” She says.
“Yeah, and he’s quit the mason, too,” I say, spinning the loaded bag like I just put fresh produce in before tying it shut.
Her kid is in Xylo’s face now. It’s a girl, and poorly parented. I know this because her mom is overly made up, there is a Range Rover in her driveway, and I’m assumptive bastard. Also because the little girl is spraying my dog in the face with a Windex bottle converted into a squirt gun.
I stare hatefully at the little girl. I shouldn’t. It’s not hear fault she’s the victim of a Range Rover driver. I turn my gaze back to the mother, who is admiring Xylo’s coat.
“We thought about getting one,” She says.
“You did, huh?” I could care less, my teeth gritted at the girl spraying Xylo, who is to nice to bite her arm off.
“But I was worried about their energy level,” says the lady.
“Did you do any research on them?” I ask.
“Well, they’re race dogs,” she says, recycling a myth like that explains it all. I roll my eyes. “We ended up getting a boxer instead,” she says.
“But a Boxer’s energy level is way higher,” I say.
“Yeaaaaah…” She says, letting it draw out like it’s not a big deal that she got exactly what she didn’t want because she was misinformed. She probably thought a greyhound would run around the house and knock over her ming dynasty vases or trample her *adorable little kiddies. Instead, it would sleep, be respectful of personal space, and take well formed craps for biscuits.
“But we love him,” Finishes the lady, still oblivious to her daughter.
“Well that’s great… Hey there, little girl,” I start, my voice one of pure tenderness. The girl looks up at me but keeps squirting. “My dog’s name is Xylo.”
“Hi Zwylo,” Says the girl.
I continue, still with the kiddy voice. “I’m walking him today because he’s been a good boy and not eaten any children this week. We’ve got him on new medication, but it’s almost time for him to have more. At any moment, he could lose it and rip your arm clean off. It really hurts, and there is a lot of blood.”
The girl stops squirting and backs away.
I look back at the woman, “you were saying something about your boxer?”
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