…okay, they weren’t exactly Rottweilers. And they didn’t attack me personally, but other than those minor details the rest of the story is true. Mostly.
So my wife and daughter and I are chilling out Sunday morning. Buzzer rings and its our best friend, Liz (by request her name has been changed to protect her true identity and preserver her anonymity. Her real name is, Liz) from across the street. She comes up, loyal Pug Carlos in tow.
Carlos doesn’t care if I use his real name or not. Carlos is a dog. Dogs aren’t subject to self-reflection like humans. Maybe it’s the humility-inducing act of sponging off other animals butts with their tongues, but dogs rarely have thoughts like “Does this leash look my ass look big?”.
Anyway, turns out Liz’s neighbor, was taken out on a stretcher by EMT’s. Problem is, neighbor’s a little old lady with four Jack Russel Terriers. Or, for those of you who’ve ever been yapped and nipped at by a “Jack”, you know they’re more appropriately termed “Jack Russel Terrorists”.
Next to a Hezbollah hit squad, they’re pretty devoted to creating their own rein of confusion and intimidation through the “Bark and Bite” tactic.
And it turns out, Liz has been on the receiving end of their strong-jaw antics, having taken a nip to the thigh years earlier. And now there’s one or more of these crazed, bloodthirsty, menacing demon-hounds prowling her hallway.
Oh, like if I’d written “…there was a small non-descript dog the size of a toaster cowering in the hallway waiting for its owner to return…”, you’d still be reading? Thank you.
Now, the urban legends surrounding these vicious hounds are legendary. Renowned cage-fighting dog expert Johnny “Mutt” Vasquez says “Jacks” were originally bred by wealthy Upper East Siders intent on stemming an influx of knock-off designer footwear above 71st street.
But after a few generations of in-breeding, it appears the dogs lost their taste for cheap mules and sling backs from Nine West. Soon, faux designer eye-ware, handbags and even those cute little jewel cases for cell phones were targeted.
By the mid-90’s, the dogs were prevalent well up to E. 87th and as far west as 79th and Broadway. Soon we were a city of denizens living in fear, toting gnarled fake handbags. I hear to this day the Chinese won’t let a Jack Russel below Houston St.
So when Liz (her real name) told us through broken, rasps of breath she’d been cornered by the beasts my wife and I knew she needed help. Now, bear in mind my wife and I don’t get out much. Okay, maybe since the baby we don’t get out—ever.
And when Sunday morning finally kicks one lazy foot out of bed and you realize your otherwise fabulous weekend plans were reduced to a. dusting b. re-organizing 2000 Thomas The Engine books, well a mild case of “Gang Attack By Hell-Hounds” dawns like a new day, a rebirth of the adventure-filled life you once lived but is now so very far in life’s rear view mirror you can’t ever recognize it.
I also wanted my little girl to grow up in a city of true diversity and cultural acceptance where she could freely choose to wear a nice little French sole Cha Cha from Prada even if it did cost dad the electric bill. As a down payment.
Barring that I figured I’d at least score some kind of civic award for bravery. Bloomberg would hold a press conference, I’d say something like “We all have a hero inside us, just waiting for the moment to do some good…”, then there’d be a tasteful little brunch, some snap shots and I’d have my rent stabilized forever. So yeah, it was worth a shot to the sack by some angry dog.
Anyway, Liz is no slouch when it comes to adventure having successfully raised the Upper West Side’s most glamorous, energetic and personality-filled 2 year old since Shirley Temple. Aka, Rosie, aka Roesita aka whirlwind Rosie. Liz and my wife decided it would take a well-planned sneak in to Liz’s building aided by a treat to detour the rampaging canines.
Armed with a baggie full of 8-grain bread, Liz and I carefully opened the door to her building. I could hear the dogs snarling somewhere near, but so far they didn’t appear to hear us re-enter the building. Liz and Carlos stayed at the front door, keeping it propped open for me if I had to retreat for my life.
I crept up the stairs, nutritious bread in hand when it dawned on me instead of whole wheat goodness, I should’ve been carrying a little dress flat casual from Payless. I could hear the dogs in their apartment, gnawing their latest victim probably, but probably otherwise uninterested that the last time Liz or I saw any real designer foot up close it was on QVC.
By the time we’d scampered to safety inside Liz’s, little Rosie was there to greet me with a freshly excavated “Boogie”, her way of saying “Thanks for making retail shopping safe again, man”.
And as I walked home, flush from my near-death encounter (hello, remember there were four dogs in that apartment. Any they could’ve sprung at any moment…) I realized, maybe its not the animal’s fault. I mean, they were just doing what they were trained for. Just like us Manhattanites were trained to look for the big red SALE sign at Banana Republic and Kenneth Coles.
And who knows. With the proper care and re-training, those pesky but loyal little dogs could serve their fellow man, or woman again with distinction and honor. They could rise above their past and serve side by side with humans to contribute in a positive way to society.
LIke, we could train them to bark really, really loud when the Starbucks guys doesn’t put enough foam in your Cappuccino.
Oh, and/or save orphans. Somehow.
