LOOKS ARE DECEIVING, EVEN IN THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

LOOKS ARE DECEIVING, EVEN IN THE ANIMAL KINGDOM(Susan Joyner-Stumpf) OBSERVATION:
LOOKS ARE DECEIVING,
EVEN IN THE ANIMAL KINGDOM


This will be a true, yes, pretty accurate account of my observations into one of those what I refer to as Invisible Wonders of the World: Human Nature ~ however deep or shallow I happen to find myself swimming (drowning ?) at the current moment, no pun intended. And that, without a split-nano-second doubt, looks are mighty deceiving, but not just amongst us proud, upright standing, able-to-reason thought processing homo sapiens, but in the four-legged Animal Kingdom as well.
CASE IN POINT:


I have five dogs. The last time I checked, I am not an Octopus, and therefore, cannot take them all on nice brisk walks simultaneously. Husband is mostly too busy holding down two and a-half jobs to worry about coming home after a long commute and helping to walk these antsy guys and gals. Besides, it was my idea to have pets anyway. So, to make life a little easier for all parties concerned, I have narrowed the solution down to this: those dogs lucky enough to accompany me in the Jeep on the way to errands (feed the horses 40 minutes away, trips to Wal-Mart, King Super Grocery Store, Walgreens for prescriptions, Bank, etc.) are not necessarily the same dogs I take on daily walks, weather permitting. It’s an exchange I’ve worked out in fairness for all dogs to have a piece of me, and none of them have complained. Yet! So, the dogs that escort me to the Post Office obviously keep their snouts shut and don’t tell the other dogs when they get back home: ahhh-ha, I got to go with the Mistress to the store, you didn’t, nah, nah naaaaaaanna, nah, na, or vice-versa. The dogs taking a walk don’t rub it in the other dogs’ faces or anal parts, either, that they got to jog around a couple of blocks and enlighten fire hydrants with their lasting ammonia. Domesticated dogs, by nature, are not vindictive, as far as I can tell. After all, we are observing human nature, not canine nature, right? Stay with me, here.

I wouldn’t say I live in a baaaaaaad neighborhood, but let’s face it: drive-by shootings and hold-ups happen even in the best of your upscale Gaited Communities, so, one can never be too overly-cautious in this day and age, sadly enough. I live in what I would consider a middle-class neighborhood in the outskirts of Pueblo, Colorado, a two-lane street lined with beautiful, manicured Victorians and 1920 Craftsman style Bungalows. We live in this neighborhood temporarily until my husband and I are able to afford to build our dream log home on acreage in the near future. Anyway, I’m sidetracking again. In this area where I call home for the present time, many are young families just starting out. Some are empty-nesters and their little chicks and chickadees have sprouted wings and flown the coop. Others, like my husband Howard and I, never had children and consider our pets (horses, dogs, cats, goats, ferrets, fish) as our kids. Yes, we do, meaning, “our kids” get a yearly physical and updated shots before WE do. And they get remembered on their Birthdays with hats and horn blowing and treaties the whole nine yards. At Christmas time, there are more gifts under that fake Spruce tree that Santa Mom and Dad left for THEM than there are gifts for each other. But, that’s okay. Happy Pets make for a Happy Mom and Dad, that’s how we see it. But I digress.

I am by no means beautiful, but, nonetheless, any young woman out there walking alone has to be on her P’s and Q’s. Serial rapists/killers don’t care if you look like Christie Brinkley or Whoopi Goldberg when they have a madness to feed, and, if you’re in the wrong place at the right time along their sordid path, you will become their next victim if you’re not careful. I don’t carry money, only house keys and a cell phone. Lately, because crime is a fact of life almost anywhere you live (and I’m from New Orleans, so I know first-hand. . .) but I’ve also lived in Poplaville, Mississippi and Asheville, North Carolina, I’ve decided to walk with one of my dogs for safety purposes, and again, it’s a nice bonding experience too. So, there are two dogs that I rotate for walks: Freckles, my female Shih Tzu, who, I would guess, weighs in roughly a cute little Ewok size of 12 pounds. Thor, on the other hand, my massive, solid black male Great Dane, weighs in around 145. He’s 32 inches across the chest, so, he’s taller than my friend’s miniature horse, just to give you an idea of his size. Intimidating-looking to say the least. And a great deterrent, I hope, in anyone wanting to “mess” with me.

Another observation of Human Nature is underlying cruelty at its worst, or best, depending on your point of view. It comes in small, fragile, least-expecting packages; stalks from depths of immaculate porch shadows, lies in proverbial stealth-silence across ruby red lips before finally bursting alive at the scene (and upon your senses and eardrums) behind the facade of sweet old ladies with blue-dyed air and over-rouged cheekbones.
Case in Point:


It was a typical Colorado-summer day. The rest of the dogs were lazing about in the backyard while inside, I prepared Freckles, the 12-lb. Shih Tzu, for our merry little walk this particular afternoon. I knew she was excited because she stood below the leash in the Laundry Room as it hung precariously from its horseshoe hook, barking frantically at it as though she expected at any moment for it to growl back. Knowing and anticipating as well that the sight of it she had long ago learned to associate with outside and “outings” without me even mentioning the words “let’s go bye-bye.”

Her acute, over-abundance of exuberance was undeniable and contagious until it reached mounting frenzy-state. Her brown eyes darted swiftly back and forth between me and the culprit leash and I couldn’t grab it fast enough to satiate her dire need. My cute little dog became very frightening-looking at that point. Her bulging, pulsing eyeballs reminded me of a Bi-Polar Crack Addict going through withdrawal symptoms on a bad hair day. I half expected to see frothy saliva foaming from her rabid-swollen tongue. Freckles’ squealy bark was a piercing reminder that exercise is very crucial to “inside” dogs because it gives them something to look forward to: the outside world and rare time with a beloved mistress. As I reached for it, the squeal went up an Octave and I swear I heard a glass shatter in the nearby kitchen sink. I chalked the sound up to one of the cats getting into something that they knew better than to play with.

Finally, I was able to get the leash clasped securely to her collar, as Freckles repeatedly, and without cue, somersaulted like a Circus-pup between my hands. Her exasperating feats and whines and whimpers left us both breathless, and made it all the more difficult to perform such a simple and mundane task as putting a leash on her.

At long last, we headed out the front door. All was calm on the Western Front for at least the first several blocks away from home, anyway. Freckles would sniff an area, do her business, and be anxious to move on. She was good at not pulling very hard but when we passed dogs in their yards behind fences, she would forget her doggie manners and drag me like a sled dog to go meet them. Why is it your dogs act like they’ve never seen another live dog when they’re out on a walk? She has four buddies at home to play with, but when she’s out and about, she acts like she’s never seen another dog in her life and must check out every one we come in contact with. If it wasn’t for her curiosity, an hour’s walk could really be shortened to thirty minutes or less, but, I figure this is HER time too, these jaunts, so, she deserves to have some fun too. And, if sniffing a German Shepherd or St. Bernard on the “other side” of a Hurricane Fence is her idea of a good time, well, then, bring it on! Funny thing is, Freckles will, the majority of the time, ignore a Chihuahua or Toy Poodle, but show her a Rott or Doberman or Shepherd, and she has to sniff noses with these monsters that could swallow her in two short breaths and forget they did it. I will not attempt to get into dog Psychology here other than to say perhaps she sees dogs her own size less of a challenge than the Big Kahunas. After all, her pack brothers are a Great Dane, a Chocolate Lab and an Australian Shepherd, so, she feels comfortable and quite at home in the company of much larger canines.

We headed home. Of all places, Freckles stopped in front of a quaint beige Bungalow with an elderly woman swinging on her white-washed porch. The kind of elderly woman that looks like Leave It To Beaver’s granny. Her hair was dyed neon blue and her cheeks overly-rouged like a Raggedy Ann Doll, but other than that, I half expected this woman to invite me in for Cupcakes and Tea. Instead, I got this:

“Hummm . . . what’d ya call that? A long-haired rat?”

I looked around to see where the disembodied voice was coming from. Surely, I thought to myself, it was not coming from that sweet old lady over there on the porch in her swing, sipping Lemonade in a pink floral Moo Moo frock. But after looking around for a rude teenage girl with a high-pitched trembling voice that was accosting me on a peer dare, I realized that, other than me and Freckles, the only other “living thing” observing us was, you guessed it, the elderly woman sitting on the front porch swing looking like anyone’s Norman Rockwell Grandmother.

“Excuse me?” I asked, thinking I heard wrong. Perhaps it was I who needed a hearing-aide instead. Nope. I heard right.

“I said, what’d ya call that kinda mutt? Looks to me like a long-haired field rat.”

“It’s a Shih Tzu, she’s not a mutt,” I answered kindly, having always been told, no matter what my age, to respect my elders, even if they didn’t care to respect me. Maybe she was senile, I told myself, to cushion the blow. “A rat this big . . . well . . .”

“Still looks like a dirty, filthy rat to me,” she interrupted. The swing creaked through the summer air as though it was going to break from its ceiling mount. A quick flash raced across my brain of her falling and me rushing to her side to help. Or, would I just keep walking? Maybe she was attempting a poor impression of James Cagney . . . you dirty rat. I thought to myself, guess this means you’re not going to invite me for a glass of Lemonade? I saw that thought go up in a drought of flames. I didn’t know quite how to respond to her genteel abruptness.

“Well, for your information, she’s not a rat, I wouldn’t be walking a rat,” I laughed, “and besides ….”

Again, she interrupted, as though anything I had to say was of little to no importance, in the scheme of things. “The rat didn’t do anything in my yard, did it?” She snarled like one of my dogs in anger-mode. Or did she sound like the Witch from the Wizard of Oz? I'll get you, and your little dog, too. . . I thought I even saw some of her front teeth protrude outward, with spittle. “I don’t want my yard littered with rat crap. You hear me?”

I squinted my eyes, thinking, I must be hallucinating. Perhaps I was getting too much sun and it was frying my brain cells. Surely such words can’t be coming out of this sweet looking old lady. Okay, okay, so what, she had blue psychedelic hair and looks like she put her makeup on with eyes closed, but still, I did not expect her mouth to produce such atrocities. She smiled a dentured smile and I could have sworn she was going to invite me still for something to drink. I must be gullible. Or a damn fool. The latter is more the case. Unfortunately.

“Have a nice day, and no, she didn’t mess your yard,” I said, prodding Freckles away from her precious Rose bed. That’s all I needed, was for Freckles to crap on her prized rose petals and really give ammunition to hate her rat’s ass.

Finally out of earshot of that old buzzard. I was reeling from the shock of it all and muttered out loud under my breath, “Thinks you’re a rat, Freckles. She needs new glasses, the stupid old …”

I tripped, my own thoughts cut short from the near fall. A man came out from beneath his Ford truck. He had no flesh that I could see, was just one multiple tattoo from his giant head to his even more luminous bare feet. He had silver lip rings, golden nose rings, a purplish-orange Mohawk, and some red stuff dripping from his gargantuan hands. My imagination took off into space~ he must have just killed his poor mother. Of course, the red stuff dripping was only crimson paint, but his appearance, I have to admit, took me totally by surprise and I stood there, trembling, and not from a near fatal crash due to my own two legs.

“Miss, are you okay?” he asked gently as I attempted to recover from an embarrassing stumble right in front of his greasy driveway. I looked around for the humanoid that was attached to this soothing, considerate voice. But, as I looked frantically around, but to no avail, for a teenage boy or older gentleman, I realized all there was ~ was Tattoo-Ring Man, a shaken me, and a wagging Freckles.

I brushed the dust off my jeans, chuckling to hide wounded pride. “Oh yeah, I’m such a klutz but I’ll survive,” I mumbled, trying to walk on to save face. What was left of it, I should add . . .

He outstretched his biceps to help me up further. “Are you sure you’re okay Miss? Want to sit down for a moment?” He grabbed a lawn chair and coaxed me in it. “Can I get you some water or something?” His seemingly black eyes glistened sincerely behind a tanned, inked face that looked like something between a hatchet and a Samurai on a vendetta mission.

“No, no, I’m fine,” I lied, wondering why he was going through so much trouble to make sure I was okay. I was trying just as hard to look past the tattoos that covered 90% of his body; and the perforations on sensitive areas like lips and noses that are real prominent when conversing with others of the human race. I don’t normally judge people by what they are or how they present themselves, but he truly stopped me in my tracks as far as trying to accept him and deal with him on the level of a dignified human being worth respect. But I sure was going to give it a whirl.

Problem was, instead of talking to his eyes or his face as a whole, I felt I was addressing his separate body parts, and all the ones that were painfully pierced for the sake of Art. When he spoke, the lip rings dangled and danced in cahoots to his varied pronunciations and his nose rings wiggled in hot pursuit. The American Eagle across his hairy chest seemed to take flight on its own, without wings, when he raised his upper lungs to laugh. Another part of me kept expecting him to start cursing like a Biker, or a drunk, Liverpool Sailor, but, guess what? If anyone cursed, it was me beneath my own vile breath when I nearly tripped on my face. Maybe, after all, my conscious begged me, despite the way he appears, he’s genuinely a real nice guy. Actually, more of a gentleman than men I’ve met in three piece suits that look what society considers, ahem, “normal.”

If at all possible, his demeanor softened even more once he looked down at Freckles. His entire face melted into boyish, waxed delight. “Now isn’t that the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. Can I pet her? Please? You know, I’m just a sucker for animals, and you want to know the worst part of it? They KNOW it, too.” And Freckles, who’s normally a good judge of character like most dogs, did not wait for my permission to jump in his arms and lick his face like a bacon-scented bone. If I would have left, she would have adopted this stranger as her new master and not thought twice of me ever again, nor looked back, I’m afraid. She acted like she had known this creature all her short life and had been separated, and was just now re-united, the way she was carrying on. It took me aback, really, and I was jealous of her zealous and new-found affection for him. He was loving every moment of it, I could tell. I don’t think he thought of her as a rat, either. It was really something, listening to all these lovey-dovey, cooing dove sounds coming out of the mouth of The Incredible Hulk, here. But, there it was, in broad daylight. Beauty and the Beast.

Finally, it was time to end this Kodak moment. I had enough of this sickening love affair and called Freckles to come immediately to me. She hesitated, and went back to dowsing Tattoo-Ring Man with her whore-kisses. Hey Freckles, I thought to myself, remember me? Your Mistress? The one you’ve lived with for the past seven years of your dog life? The one that feeds you and forgives your accidents on my Oriental Carpet and buys you silly pink sweaters and keeps you groomed so you don’t have to mop my floors? Yeah, that Mistress.

“Thank you,” I said as I yanked Freckles away from him and dragged her down the block towards home. I felt like the cruel stepmother tearing a child away from its real, biological family. Her head forlornly looked back at him as though pulling her away from a favorite toy or something just as traumatic. For goodness sakes, I thought aloud, this is totally ridiculous. Where is your loyalty, Freckles?

“Bye, until we meet again,” he waved at me with a smile and a wrench clenched in his hand, the same one it looks like he would beat the brains out of somebody with, but instead, tuned up his truck to purr like a gentle kitten.

Now, exit Freckles. Enter in Thor, the massive beast of a black Great Dane, larger than a miniature horse. New day. New walk. This paragraph will be short and sweet, folks, as no one bothers me when I’m walking down the street with a big, black Great Dane heeling by my side, wonder why. Passing cars don’t slow down to yell out obscenities. Sweet-looking old ladies on their porches don’t call out to me that Thor looks like a Giant, Over-sized Rat. As a matter of fact, others walking by pass quickly with heads down, dogs in their arms if they can carry them, and they give us a wide birth to walk by, if, as a matter of fact, they don’t cross the street first to avoid us altogether.

Do I do it now or later, burst their bubble and show all the error of their ways? To point out how looks are so deceiving whether you have two legs and whiskers, or four legs and whiskers? Maybe those people I pass on walks should be aware of two critical facts: number one, when Freckles isn’t slobbering all over Tattoo-Ring Man, she’s normally very elusive and unfriendly towards others and only cares for my husband and I. She has been known to snarl and snap at our friends and definitely at strangers, and she rules the roost here, over the other dogs. That’s right. She’s considered the Alpha and will bite heads off while still looking cute. Yours or the Great Dane’s, who, by the way, submits to her, big as he is. She has established herself as “Boss Dog” and yet, by comparison, she’s the smallest out of the five.

Now, Thor, on the other hand, yes, the 145 pound Great Dane, is a Wuss and makes no bones about it, and is one big Push-Over to the Max Baby. Look at him cross-eyed and he will slump over to you to say he’s sorry when he didn’t even do anything wrong; he will just take the blame to get you to be happy again. To be quite honest, he’s about as much of a Guard Dog as my Goldfish. If you’re in the midst of robbing my house, it is Thor who will be the one to offer you a cold drink while also reminding you not to overlook the Plasma TV. And he will entice you all the way out the door to play fetch with him just one last time with a worn out, fang-bitten Frisbee.

I’ve been debating on whether or not to let on to others to watch out for Freckles, and not Thor, when I’m on a walk. Then I think, heck, let them figure it out for themselves when the time comes. Ssssshhh, I’m not saying a word. So much for Human Nature and Dog Psychology and yes, looks are deceiving, in this world, in their world, and other dimensions, and perhaps even in the great beyond.

Just ask Thor and Freckles. But I warn you: neither one of them kiss and tell. And, augh, Freckles doesn’t like you, anyway.


© Susan Joyner-Stumpf