Death in Guantanamo

Sonja and I are city people, slicker than a seal's dick. In a small Canadian town far from Dope City we were walking down the sidewalk slow as a revolution with our dog the Hammer. The Hammer is a big dog. Her bigness is not something we think about much because we have always had big dogs. The appeal of lap dogs we do not get.

We were walking down the sidewalk real slow because we were tourists in the small town. The only thing slower than a tourist is death in Guantanamo. As we were walking along we came aside a few people with a baby sitting on chairs in the shade of a hundred year old building. The baby was sitting on the knee of one of the men who was sitting there gabbing with a woman who I guessed was the baby's mom. Mom got up real quick and shielded her baby from my slobbering dog. "No," she hissed. "No. No. No. No. Keep your dog away from my child."

I have had the same breed of dog for decades. They have all been very good with children. Unless the kid wants to play or has a length of snot hanging out of its nose that needs to be super-efficiently sucked out, my dogs pay no attention to children.

So I told the hissing mother, "If you don't want your fucking kid to come into contact with dogs keep him off the motherfucking sidewalk."

I think I was right. If I was a muslim shithead in Afghanistan I would have been right even if I was not right. Sonja says I am an asshole for talking to a protective, if over-protective, mother like that.

Could be I am both right and an asshole. Or maybe just an asshole who does not like his dog being presumed guilty of baby-eating when she had not even noticed any yummy babies around.