We Didn't Start the Fire...

MacShane is the big red dog. He's got a real problem with diesel powered vehicles, big white vans and trucks, and a well-developed sense of prey drive. And who can blame him, really, when squirrels are just tennis balls thrown by the gods. (Pick one, or more, they're all welcome with me!) 

About four days ago, now, we were out for the "get the jitters out" trip we take before the humans go to work and had what I'm euphemistically calling a "whoops". 

I had to take a day or two to calm down from it. I was... nah, no nicer way to say it, I was pissed, and not at MacShane. None of any of the last eight years of chaos, fear, confusion, and frightening reactions have been his fault. 

He's a dog for cryin' out loud. Dog's gonna dog. 

Anyway, we were out walking, like we do, my head on a swivel and making course corrections to avoid squirrels, cats, kids, other humans, and big white vans and trucks, but still finding all the leaf piles full of hidden gumballs to sniff around in, when what comes lumbering down our narrow little one-way street... but a garbage truck. 

Where were we? On a very unfortunate corner where turning right would take us right past a house with a fence jumping collie on top of a 7' hill, and turning left to get away from the monstrous noise and smell would run us past a toddler on one of those noisy plastic tricycles with a grandma on the porch talking loudly on her phone. 

Whoops! Nothing to do but try to distract him, and barring that, stay out of bite range. Game on!

Now, understand that this is a 75 pound dog, and I am a 200 and (mumble) pound woman. Short of picking him up and wrenching my back, I could *not* shift this dog once he realized that truck was heading right for us. It was like he'd grown in that patch of concrete. Muscles were literally quivering with anticipation. I was stuck between praying I didn't drop the leash so he wouldn't get flattened, and praying if I needed to I could drop the leash in time to get my arms clear of his mouth if it all went to shit. 

Miraculously, I didn't have to change my pants once we got home. Apparently I can thank St. Elmo, patron against abdominal distress, for that blessing. 

We were, blessedly, on opposite sides of a stop sign from the truck. Briefly I thought I had a shot at getting away if I waited until the truck stopped, went into idle, and I turned one of MacShane's "get the nerves out" circles into a curlicue and crossed the road. 

Just as I tried it... the (Richard Nixon's favorite word) truck driver laughed and honked the (Richard Nixon's favorite word) horn. 

Richard Nixon's favorite word that driver. 

So my temper got the better of me for a moment, and, not realizing the schmuck's window was down, I glared at the truck with one eye, keeping the other on MacShane in case he went from frantic spinning to lunging at my legs or snapping at my hands, and shouted "You're not Richard Nixon's favorite word helping with that. Thank you!" 

Imagine my shock when I saw the dude's hand come out of the hole where a window usually is and heard "Sorry! I didn't realize he was scared." 

Okay, first off, it's Richard Nixon's favorite wording cold out here, but I guess the window could be open for the smell. It is a garbage truck. 

Secondly, what could this guy think was going on with a dog obsessively spinning in circles at the side of the road that *blaring a horn* is going to improve?

And thirdly, I know what I look like when I'm in a good mood. If there weren't already flames shooting out of my ears at that fiasco, I apparently need to have some installed, because I know my Customer Service Bland expression was NO WHERE TO BE SEEN AT THAT MOMENT. What kind of person sees a resting bitch face that can burn holes through cinder blocks and thinks, "That's a happy situation, let me just add some background music."? 

At best, the methane is getting to that guy.

The walk home, comparatively, was perfect. Apparently seeing me get mad at the truck too made MacShane feel like we're a team against diesel or something. "Shrink your carbon footprint or else?" I don't know. Dog's gonna dog... and I'm gonna go gray *quickly* if that scenario happens much more often.

Sadly, I've officially now cussed at a city employee. I think that was the last square I needed on my "Welcome to St. Louis" bingo card, right next to "disappointing pizza," "almost creamed by a Laclede Cab," "free space," and "getting cut off by a junker car with tinted windows". 

I hope this big lug settles down before I can mark off a full card.