"The road to Hell...."

You know the old saying, “The road to Hell is often paved with good intentions” ? What they don’t tell you is that the starting line is right here, at my own front door! I swear to God, it’s true. I get into more trouble helping out my friends and neighbors than anyone else I know! Here’s a great example:

A neighbor of mine who I only very casually knew (i.e., we had said “hello” a total of four or five times) came to me one day and asked me if I would let her dog out and feed him for one week, as she was going on a trip to Florida. It didn’t seem like too big of a favor to ask, and in my benevolent stupidity, I said, “Yes, of course.”

She told me where the dog food was, gave me her key,  and said thanks a bunch, phone numbers are on the counter in the kitchen, see-you-in-a-week -- and then happily ta-ta’ed me on her carefree way. 

Later that afternoon, I went over to let Spike (his name, for real) outside and give him his dinner. He was such a nice dog! Tail wagging like an oscillating fan, he trotted outside to do his thing. Meanwhile, I set up his food dish and set it right back where I found it, on the floor next to the doorway to the dining room. Odd, I thought: they have a gate there, which for a dog his age seemed a bit over-kill. Spike was about 10 years old, weighed about 60 or 70 pounds, I guessed, and seemed to be mostly shaggy, aging fur. Boy, was I ever wrong! 

Spike came back inside and went right to his food dish. Then, all hell broke loose.

I had to walk past him and his food dish to leave the kitchen. An ominous growl filled the air – low decibels at first, it crescendoed to a full roar within about 5 seconds. HUGE white teeth glared at me and as he hunkered down for his forward-thrust kill- leap, I just about fainted. Never, ever in my life had I been challenged by a dog. Never, ever in my life had I been in a situation where if I got hurt, NO ONE was going to be around for at least a week! And….let us not forget, I am a bit physically challenged and sport no less than three artificial joints, which add collectively about 14 pounds of stainless steel and plastic to my body. There was no where to run and I couldn’t run, anyway, if my life depended on it. Which it did.

I managed to scoot around the kitchen table, with Spike following me every inch of the way, snarling, growling and purely salivating by this point. “Alpo, move over!”  I thought. “I’m here for dinner and I AM the dinner!”

At the last instant, as I rounded the far side of the table closest to the dining room gate/door, I picked up a chair and like a lion tamer, held it in front of me, warding him off. He lunged! And, got himself all tangled up in the chair’s legs long enough for me to make my escape.

“OH MY GOD!” I panted. “What am I going to do, now?!” There was NO way I was going to go back into the kitchen ever, ever again – but as luck would have it – where was her list of emergency phone numbers? You got it! ON the kitchen counter!

With Spike now totally p***** off, and snarling like a maniac, I prayed the gate would hold long enough for me to find a phone number – any phone number. Looking through a drawer in what appeared to be a little end table, I found some numbers! I dialed the first one and Holy Master of Mutts, it happened to be my neighbor’s sister, whose name was Marvella.

“I’m not coming down that far just to feed a dog!”, she complained. “Hey, I didn’t get to go to Florida,” she pouted.

“Look, you don’t understand, Marvella! I am NOT ever coming back into this house again –un uh – no way Jose, nada, nyet, nein, and in case you didn’t understand -- NO! You have got to call your sister and make other arrangements!” I concluded, sweat pouring down my face, with Spike now chewing on the gate!

I guess they did make other arrangements because that night I saw a car out front of my neighbor’s house and one very angry-looking woman walking Spike who now appeared to be a model of Pure Pooch Peace.

The following week, when Mrs. Neighbor returned from Florida, she came over to apologize and explain to me that she had forgotten to tell me one little thing: never to walk anywhere near Spike’s dish when he was eating.  With this, she kind of giggled as if I would find it somewhat funny, too. Sorry to say, and though I hated to disappoint her, I didn’t find it one bit amusing.

That week, I went out and bought an interesting book: “How To Say No.”

Good book, that one!