The dog's stomach is growling. She's been mowing down the grass again. "You're not a cow!" My step mother says in cutesy-voice to the pup. Abby is a Puerto Rican mutt. At 35 pounds, she has four legs, a muzzle, and desert-colored fur. Looking at her, I am reminded of the setting sun at the beach, or perhaps of an oversized chihuahua, with her pricked ears and frightened black eyes. She's a whimp, or "submissive." Hates my dad and other guys. But she likes my boyfriends...Stacey (step mom) thinks this is due to his heavy boots, thundering voice, and attack-like movements. I think she might be accurate in that assumption.
At Carlene's (the Farm) the dogs don't get away with a fear of the human male. They are subjected as often as there's a guy around, and Carlene will have him sit down petting the dog with a pocketful of cookies. Today Chaos (about four months old, she's a harlequin) made the mistake of shying away from the control officer, Matt, who stopped by today. Carlene called the pup, but she ignored, tail lowered, as she hid behind sad-faced Gypsy, perhaps her big sister. Carlene grabbed her, brought her back, and made Chaos stay still while the tall man in the flourescent-yellow jacket and with the heavy boots, petted her and gave her cookies. I sat by her side, to deter any escape plans she might consider. The man smelled of a very strong cologne that even bothered me. I wondered if it wasn't the smell that sent Chaos-puppy running. I was intent on doing the same very shortly.