Specifically, my dog. Inspired by recent post where I interviewed myself (in the style of F.Scott Fitzgerald’s interview with himself) I decided to make a thing of it.
I met up with Titch the jack Russel cross (crossed with what, we’re not quite sure. His father was never present in his life before he got adopted so this remains a mystery,) on a cool summer morning. He was being walked by his owner at a local park, one that they had lately began to frequent a lot. Titch is a very stout dog. Small, his stomach low to the ground, but not by any means fragile looking. Overall, he’s a very handsome dog with big, orange coloured puppy-dog eyes.
We sat down on a bench and he sniffed at my feet, seeming rather uninterested if a little annoyed that I had stopped the progression of his walk. I introduced myself. He regarded me with his big eyes and gave me a throaty bark, out of acknowledgement or frustration, I’m not quite sure. In the distance a soft yellow Labrador approached, his lead tensed in his owners hand, eager to meet Titch and exchange greetings.
The dog approached him ears down, as a contrast to Titch’s perked up ears (one slightly lopsided from a operation where the end of his ear had to be removed) but after a quick sniff of the other dog, Titch seemed no longer interested in any further interaction with the yellow dog. The Labrador sulked off, rejected, sad that he had not quite made up to Titch’s standards of company.
More time past. Titch seemed alert and constantly interested in everything, straining the length of his lead to get to certain spots among the grass (two meters was clearly not enough for him.) Eventually, he seemed to reach the end of his tether, or rather, lead, and barked at me and his owner in an inpatient kind of manner. With a sigh, his owner got up and began walking, Titch now content and happy that the walk was once again being lead by him.
Along the path a runner emerged from behind the trees. Titches owner tensed the lead, sensing an impending reaction from Titch, and of course, she was right. At sight of the male runner, Titch’s black but graying fur rose and he began to bark, this time sounding much more threatening. His owner apologized to the unfazed runner, and soon Titch’s back was flat again, trotting along the grass, satisfied in his knowledge that he had warned the man from coming closer to him or his entourage.
“He doesn’t like men…or just people in general I guess. But especially not men.” His owner laughed, and as I said my goodbyes to an unbothered Titch, unaware of my leaving or perhaps, uncaring, I silently thanked that I was not a man.