Thaïs Deep

The fall season is a pretty wonderful time of the year, the skies start to cloud over, the winds pick up but at the same time, people start to put away the summer clothes, and the fall clothes come out. That's one of the parts I like the best, seeing people getting all togged up in heavier coats, and the girls sport big, wild scarves and the fellas start to wear their hats. Mind you, the smart ones sport fedoras and flat caps. The wild ones with baseball caps and beanies, and the weird ones with derbys and skull caps. The absolute strange ones are still wearing straw right now. But the best part about the fall, is that it just keeps getting better and better. From just a light coat or jacket, suddenly, the great double breasted coats emerge again from the closet or storage, like a magnificent ship slowly pulling out of a slip for the first time.

As you go one, the air begins to bite at your face, laden with scarves hats and high wing collars and you begin to see your breath in the air again. I just love that feeling, to see your breath emerge from your mouth, like the fiery smoke from a dragon's nostrils. No longer do you sport the flip flops, the sandals or the crocs (thank god) and then the shoes come out, the Ferragamos, the Oxfords, the wingtips, the clarks, the Martens, the Timberlands, the Uggs, the Sneakers and so much more. As the sun begins to go down, the mud rooms and the solariums are packed with muddy boots, the wicker furniture is covered in vinyl. Inside the kitchens, the scrubbed maple counters are agog with fresh picked apples, dug up mushrooms and canter glasses filled with steaming lemon tea with a stick of cinnamon suspended in the sacred fluid.

It's the time of year, you notice there seems to be more people over, the furniture is scooted around to let the fireplace become the master of the room, no longer does the television set hold the precedent of all inside. Carefully cleaned and resting pipes sit on the racks with the humidifier, the hall clock on the mantle still keeps good time, even though once in a while it does like to go off whenever it feels like. Low squatty couches no longer sit barren, now adorned with overstuffed pillows, warm fleece blankets and sheepskin slippers at the foot of each couch on a worn hearth rug. No longer are dinners lit through the blazing summer sunlight but instead the darkness of the sky is fought off only by several red bees wax tapers, and the smiles of the people you sit around and eat with.

Drinks no longer have ice in them, scotch on the rocks has gone simply to scotch neat. No longer does a mint julep sound as inviting as a hot toddy when you come home. There are noticeable signs of the impending seasons, as a ham sits curing on the counter and suddenly the cider press is pulled out of the garage. Come the Fall cold, cometh the Fall rains. The turning leaves leave crispy trails to punch out as you walk, and the slosh of rain is compounded with shlack of leaves as they are kicked aside. Further into fall, the convertible car retreats into the car house, and out rolls the heavy Buick or Ford. Classic cars for the win in this season, they seem to blend seamlessly into the classic time of the fall. Driving in the cold seems like a much more pleasurable activity, as you have a friend riding shotgun and your partner in the center of the bench, nothing could be better.

But the best part is the part when the lights go out, and the fire is nothing more than embers. You and that special someone have brushed your teeth, kicked aside the laundry around on the floor and pull the covers over. That doesn't sound any different from the usual business right? Wrong! The bed has become a plush pleasure palace of heavy blankets, down comforters, colorful duvets, and the pillows! Pillows as far as the eye can see, quilted, beaded, plain, plush. It's an impenetrable fortress of snuggles against the cold wind.

But the only thing about fall, is you get to look forward to the wintertime.

Print

Sam nervously looked at herself in the mirror, her silky white shirt hugged against her body around the waist and her eyes darted back down to her left hand where she adjusted her ring. She ran her hands over herself, edging over every single detail in her outfit. She looked around the loft seeing all the things that she and Rafe had put together. The stolen Barcelona chair that Rafe took out of the Yale architecture library for her, the rack of hockey sticks of stolen sticks that she took from various games they would go to when they would chase the Cornell Big Red. They always had to get one hockey stick from the opposing team and get the big red team to sign it. She carefully traced her hand delicately over the things on the dresser. She looked at them longingly and walked to the railing and looked down into the living room below. Rafe had a small little print shop in one corner and she had a small painting studio in the other. A couple of worn out brown leather couches arranged in a small sitting area with a flatscreen tv at the other end. Mugaboo, their wirehair terrier was snoozing on the sheepskin rug in the sunlight. She listened very carefully, she heard a record crackling on the turntable, the gentle breathing of the vacuum tubes as a slow voice slowly began to rise in a low crescendo over the gold wire speakers.

The shuffle of barefeet over wood and the sound of the old coffee boiler percolating in the kitchen area. Sam rested her elbows on the edge, counted under her breath, one... two... three... then from below her the shirtless form of Rafe walked out from the kitchen. A smile curled on her face as she watched his form walk over to the hot table and pick up a copper etching plate. As Rafe began to clean the plate, she carefully watched him dart from machine to machine finally running the plate through the itaglio press. Her hands clenched the rail nervously, anticipating the final result. Rafe pulled back the catch blanket, his face smiled as he pulled back the paper holding it against the light. She walked slowly down the stairs, her bare feet plodding down each step. Her hair, tied back in a little pony tail reflected against the large warehouse windows. She carefully walked down over to him, and she wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her nose into his shoulder. Rafe dropped his arm and the print onto the table and grabbed her. He wheeled around, and looked at her.

You know, I gotta get these done for George.
I know babe, but I just want you.
Sush, you can help me if you want.
Well...

Sam leaned onto the press plate, she slid her bottom onto the platen, still kissing Rafe. His arms, wrapped around her. They kissed for awhile longer on the printing press. Before he stood back and realized what he had done.

Shit sweetie, look at your shirt.

Sam looked down at what once was her crisp, white satin blouse, now was pock marked with blotches of printing ink.

Rafe! I...

She blushed.

Flights of Freedom

I stood only dressed in a pair of warm ups, and a tshirt. The dark, and the cold had no meaning to me as I stood, breathing in the crisp cold air. My eyes shut for a moment, and my ears focused on the sounds of the world. The ringing in my ears from years of exposure to loud noises, the low whir and hum of the cars rushing home from Christmas celebrations and the whistle of the BART trains, speeding on their last trains for the night. Today is boxing day.

For a second, I hear, the sounds of a flock of Canadian Geese. The systematic honking, the berating of their wings and beaks. A smile pursed over my lips and I recalled when I was younger, wanting to be reincarnated as a duck. The thought teased me as I watched the silhouetted V fly above me. Darking out the stars as it passed, then the star reappearing as it passed. I thought, of all the things, the places those geese have been. Canada, the wild mountains of Montana, the rainforests of Washington, all the way to the southern climates of Southern California. I longed to fly with them, and to be free from the monotony of life on land.

I wanted to be mingling with Canadians, dancing over the Rockies, lounging on the fields of Los Angeles. My head jerked back and my eyes opened again. Slowly, my family's garden came into view, the tomato plants caressing the cages, the trees, barren and bereft of leaves and the flat tones of the flagstones beneath my feet. I was not a duck, but a man. Standing warm in out of the cold, and inspired.

I am, a wandering bird.

Paaschendale

Lars sat quietly, thinking of things to write and put into his sketchbook. The black moleskine sat in front of him, its pages open and bending in the wind from the doorway of the cafe. He sat with a glassy look in his eyes and tapped his pen slowly on the front of his teeth. He drew in a slow breath, allowing for it to linger for a little while inside his mouth, then letting it pass through a small hole between his lips. His eyes drew shut for a moment and he listened. All around him, people where jostling in and out of this cafe. Wannabe divas entered and exited in their large pink coats with matching, quilted leather handbags. Men in business suits had cell phones and large electronic bricks pressed against the side of their heads. Lars could hear them speaking, yelling at some poor lackey in an office basement without any windows. He tried to imagine what spineless little goons were being subjected to this harsh verbal treatment.

For another half hour or so, he listened, keyd into these little private conversations trying to shape a life in his head, then draw the person being talked to in his sketchbook. Faces, frowns, smiles and bodies all appeared in rapid succession of another. They danced across the thick pages, all telling a story before him. Lars sat up. Stared out the window and felt accomplished.

Nothingness.

Moers stood underneath the dirty lamp, snowflakes passing underneath it's grimy rays and landing with a delicate touch on the ground around him. It had just started to snow as he stood on the concrete platform waiting for the South Shore interurban. Lackawana station lacked life and certainly a roof. He was returning home after a night out with the guys in town celebrating his friend Dawson's engagement to his childhood sweetheart Linda. Moers chuckled underneath his scarf, the heat of his breath freezing before his face. He waited for another ten minutes when the earth began to shake beneath him. The yellow interurban car appeared in the distance, the headlamp casting a harsh glow about the platform. It slid past Moers and the doors creaked open. He stepped on board and deposited his ticket. The doors closed and the car slid into the night.

He awoke to the sound of bells. Not like church bells, but like a harsh apartment doorbell sort of bell. It was the motorman's station signal waking passengers who needed to get off here. As it pulled into the station, Moers read the sign of the city and uttered out of nowhere, "Who the fuck lives here in Godawful, Minstone, Illinois?" A thin, young man wearing thick glasses stopped right by him, and stared at him. He sat down rather than continuing onto the exits. Moers could feel a sense of hatred radiating from this man as he stared at Moers intentely. He stood once again and started for the door. The light brown of his over coat was dirty around the hem, probably from walking through the streets of Chicago. But the doors shut too soon and he was stopped short of the door and the train lurched forwards again. Moers suddenly felt uncomfortable as the man walked back towards him. He sat right behind Moers and placed his leather case on the chair to his side. Moers peered in between the chairs and tried to glance at the man. His features were youthful and light, but seeming out of place with the thick plastic glasses and frumpled hair.

Moers sat up and turned around. "I take back what I said about Minstone." he said. The man looked back up at him and only uttered two words. "Fuck You." Moers turned back uncomfortably towards his seat. The lights hissed out for a second before flickering back on. Moers peered back again, but this time, the man was gone. The conductor walked past and Moers grabbed his arm. "Where did the guy go that was behind me?" "What man? There is only you and the lady on the train. No one else. No one's gotten on since you." Moers sat forward again and buried his head into his hands.

The Mutt

You picked him out, or more like he picked you. You were at the puppy counter when you couldn't decide which one to get. All of them seemed so cute and fuzzy but this one, he looked at you. Right into your eyes while all the other ones didn't pay attention. You looked at him, slightly embarrassed to be gazing at puppies longingly but he still tries to grab your attention. You take him out to the play pen, he pulls you down on top of you and licks your face and you dont know how to respond.

Hesitantly, you buy him. You and him, you go through training and all sorts of things, there are certainly habits he has that you dont want him to continue. So you teach him new tricks and he does them. He loves you, he still is fascinated by you and you love him. You think. Then you think about a cat. You throw him out. He paws at the door, he whimpers, he cries, he howls. You sit alone in your place, you read a book, but he sits there at the window, watching with big puppy dog eyes but you close the curtains, he still tries. He makes effort to get back into your life. He misses the feeling of love. You dont know if you can handle the responsibility.

You brought him up, but you've left him, still growing.

Sensory Registration

Mankind is with but five senses. Sight, smell, touch, taste and sound. No doubt, one cannot help but remember the joy involved with the flooding of memories coming back the moment that sense is triggered in the right way. In my life, I never noticed how prevalent that was until these past two months of the single life.

I was moping as usual, I stared on my shelf and picked up the little vaporizer bottle of Bath and Body works Pink Grapefruit. Unfortunate that they dont make it anymore, but I was afraid to spray it, for fear of wasting it all. I popped off the cap, took a little breather and it took me back. It brought back so many happy thoughts and memories. Helping Bri pack, nuzzling Moosie in my arms for the first time, coming home from work, exhausted and hopeless. The lobby smelled so familiar. It just hit me that moment and I couldn't place it. I opened my mail box to find a perfumed letter just for me! That is one my favorite moments in the past two years here at Cal.

I was enjoying my April 18th by taking in a flick dedicated to the 103rd anniversary of the 1906 earthquake. But after the banjo minstrel band left the stage, I sat, sunk into my seat moping. Again. But all of a sudden, the Castro theater was filled with the most extraordinary sound. The sound of the mighty Wurlitzer is a sound I could never forget. Especially played in an old jazzy way. The organ rose with a bald man at the console. The hall filled with sound and my head was abuzz with memories of ice skating in Paramount. I thought instantly of the Wurlitzer organ at that ice rink and memories of just trying to get around the rink just once. Warren as his name was played beautifully, his ability to control so many sounds at once as well as play with his feet was simply a gift. I sunk deep into the velvet chair, in a trance as it were, thinking of a simpler time. When I was ice skating, not looking at my feet, but into someone's eyes.

Castro Theatre

On Cal Day, I found myself wanting to get away from it all. What better than to enjoy a nice day in San Francisco. In an hour, I was pushing my way through throngs of tourists as a local. I knew what I wanted to do and I did it. I walked through the Castro, enjoying lunch at a local establishment, went to fisherman's wharf and bought cheap stuff. Granted, what I did was the pinnacle of what every tourist did but that was for that brief moment.

It was getting late and I had to be back in the Castro for a performance by the Peninsula Banjo Band. This, I could not miss. The band played, the organ played then I watched the film. It felt amazing to be in a motion picture palace once again. You dont know the thrill when you see the MGM lion roar on a screen the size of your house, or the fact that of all places, this movie theater had a balcony, and corinthian columns and murals on the walls.

So I say, enjoy a film, support your local motion picture palace. Not cineplex. Palace.

Heat

I sat in the shade of the bus kiosk. I stood, leaning against the frame of a wall and enjoying the muted light that penetrated through the scratched and opaque ceiling. There was a hot gust of wind, the street rippled for a second under the monotony of the weather. You could feel it, the moment you stepped out from under the shade, you felt like melting, you felt like dying.

The infernal bus never came. I started to walk. I cursed myself silently for choosing to walk on the sunny side but with that, came a reprieve when I walked changed directions and found myself on the shady side. I leaned my back against the cool granite walls of the city college. Now, I arrived again at another bus kiosk. Serviced by more reliable buses but I had not escaped that dratted weather. I looked across the street, staring calmly at the walgreens across the way. I thought for a moment, ran across, made a purchase and again found myself on the shade of the kiosk. When I had came back, there seemed to be thirty more people than when I had left. That's the bus for you.

The bus came, I walked to studio, and secluded myself in a bathroom stall. Whipped out my purchase, gave myself a good dusting and I was free of wet and heat. Thank you Goldbond Medicated Body Powder

Out of the Dust

Move it Buddy!

The soldier turned, he looked back into the eyes of a stumpy, irate Manhattan cabbie. His tweed cap sat squashed like a flat persimmon on his head and his mustashe twitched from side to side. The soldier stepped back in between the safety of the parked cars and the driver returned to his cab. He sighed watching the cab just inch past him at a crawling pace. He returned to the sidewalk with his bag and and swung it over his shoulder.

Watch it you jerk!

He turned once more this time, facing a woman in her mid twenties wearing dark sunglasses, holding a coffee and the leash of a small dog in one hand and in the other pressing the phone up to her head.
You almost made me spill my triple mocha frappacino!
He stood aside, apologized and walked.

He served in Iraq, that damn war. All guts, no glory, it's all for this? To be disrespected in your own home? He came back from a place where people shot at him, to defend the so-called rights of the people there. The same people who are like our people. The same jerks and shits. Here, he felt alienated. Here, it was no better than in Iraq.

Suspension of Darkness

Darkness enveloped my surroundings as I sat motionless, staring out of the window, my forehead pressed against the rear pillar of the car. My eyes did not wander, nor were they transfixed upon one thing, but instead, as we sped down the San Mateo bridge, my eyes only could look out one direction and wander around watching the horizon burn with a dark tinge as the lights of the city created the glow behind the mountains. I breathed a heavy sigh realizing my own heavy life.

Wires came into view. I passed them watching them grow with life and then sink back into depression, grow again, and die. The darkness made the wires seem almost suspended in midair, the only parts visible are the reflection of the silver in the faint, unearthly glow of the bay and the headlamps rushing by. A think like this, you hardly ever seem to notice if you've ever made this crossing as many times as I have at this time of night I so know and am so acquainted with. The moon is about. It hides from the world tonight making everything seem more eerie.

Just then, a 170 foot pylon swishes by marking the end of the steeplechase and now began the footrace. The steady rumbling and shluck of the tires underfoot begin their monotonous song as I began to drift somewhere else. My eyes now turned forward to watch the carbon arc lamps rush by and yet still race to the horizon and into the darkness. The thumping continues. The wires alongside the bridge still grow and die, the lights briefly giving life to the interior of the car every few seconds, illuminating every hair in the back of the driver's head, or the meshy fabric of the coat of the person next to me. The thumping stops.

We are on land.

Confessions of a Child Criminal

before you get the wrong idea about the title, its a story about me I remember that kinda just had a flash back on. So here goes:

When I was younger, my family loved exploring the natural beauty of the great state of California. Every summer, we loaded up the family car for a trip. I cant remember which trip specifically it happened on, but I'm going to say it was the trip to Utah. Yes, the great salt shaker state of Utah. Our journey first brought us south to Sequoia national park, then through Las Vegas, Hoover Dam, Zion and Bryce canyons in Utah, Las Vegas and back through Redwood state forest.

But our story starts on the last night of the trip. We were staying at gosh, what was it? A radisson inn or something. Really swanky. Each floor had a large lounge with cushy couches and fancy looking furniture. Even the TV entertainment center had the mini bar built into it rather than being separate from the TV. But since the bar was in it, they had to put a special child lock on it. While dad was showering, I thought I show how I, young little 6 year old Zach was capable of getting past the child lock.

A few words about the lock. It was a little plastic tab about an 1/8th inch in thickness and it was pushed down to release the catches on the door to reveal the tv. In my defense, it was flimsy. And the print was too small to read. Even though I could just barely read. It was simple instructions ok?!

Unsure whether to push or pull, I pulled and broke off the tab. I almost shit my pants at the moment. I started to get scared. My mother even joked, even though I didn't realize it at the moment, that the police would come arrest me if I didn't stop fooling around. You're 6. The police are coming for you. Holy shit.

When I got home safe and sound in Alameda, every time I heard police sirens, I always thought they were coming for me for being a bad boy.

Now all grown up, I respect the brave men in black and blue.

On a side note, on that trip at the supermarket, I had gotten one of those magic fish you put in your palm, and it curls and tells you your emotions. Back in the day when machines still gave out cool toys and not pieces of shit made in china.

298 Train

The train sighed as it rounded a corner on the steep grade. The daylight shone through the clear observation car window and the snow still came. You and I, we sat in a small but private booth, our legs underneath a fur throw. The Canadian rockies passed the window, countless on end. Cliffs, ledges and outcrops all seemed to howl with a majesty only the Canadians could create. The beauty of nature, the beauty of your face. The porter came by and refilled the pot of coffee. He also placed a small stove on the table to keep our upper halves warm.

Night fell, the coal stove had burned out and the car was filled with card sharks and gossip hogs. After eleven, the car cleared out, except for the two of us. As if we had never moved. Our arms still about each other and our feet warm from the cold. You sighed as the lights were extinguished and the moon streaked and lit up the car with a cold eerie light. You looked at me and you laid your head back down onto my chest. The night went on until three when we both were tired. We retired back to the cabin carriage, you climbed into the top bunk, and I into the lower one. Five minutes later, we both were in the top bunk.

The Cut

Its been there for awhile. You'd never really notice it until you dug your hands into your pocket. Searching for some unfathomable hermitage from exposure. For me, I never knew where the hell to put my hands but the sure fire and accepted standard was the pocket. Sure it meant, yeah, i'm a punk. What ch'you gonna do about it? Or. Heh... So Embarrassed. Just put hands in pocket and look like everyone else. Well, screw it all. I never knew what to do with the damn things anyhow. Standing through endless reviews. What would I do with them? I could put them up to my face, the other one wrapped around the front of my torso to support the other one. I suppose, I could go with that intelligent air. But then, my hands were usually greasy from the pastels, charcoals, pencils and inks. To casually place my finger over my lips in intense thought might mean a small charcoal mustache underneath my nose. Or I could just fold them. Then they seem too high. Damn. I suppose the pockets are the last resort. By doing so, I guess i'm like 10% less efficient that with my hands free. Restricted by these prisons of cotton, duck and denim, they found solace, but limited life. It was like finding the perfect house. In Yreka. But commuting to San Francisco on call. But today was different. My hands are busy ones. Searching through my pockets for the phone, my wallet, sometimes my pocket knife or Leatherman. But today, I need the latter. But then, it stung. It hurt. Staring carefully at the wrinkled folds of skin, the most marginalized, the smallest possible cut emerged on the thumb. The thumb. The boss digit of the hand. Turned up or down, it was a matter of life or death with the thumb. One motorcyclist was so desperate enough to replace his lost thumb, he grafted his big toe to resume his racing career. But the thumb, this noble necessity, the judge of life and death, the meaning of good or obscene through biting, had been attacked. A small clean cut. It certainly was annoying. But much to my relief, there was hope. Like St. Helena to Napoleon, Alcatraz to the Birdman, the cut in my mind, was to be gone. Application of medication, it was still there. Half hour, it still was there. I guess I lost this battle.

no wait.

Victory!

The Simplest Gesture

You ever had one of those days? You're moody, the sky is overcast, you have to run between two cities to drop off important documents and the only way is by public transportation. I had one of those days today. I left around 10:30 to run down to the school to pick up a trasnscript I had requested since the one I had sent out was probably sent out wrong. But today was the day I was going to make it all right again. I parked the car on Walnut, walked over to the bus stop, took BART out to Berkeley and dropped it off. I'm a free man now. I go back, and back home, I get the car and I drive by a friend's place, call him, etc. Next thing you know, I'm driving out to park street to get lunch with some old High School buddies. But parking. There's the problem. I rummaged through the pocket in my wallet. About 73 cents in change. Thats enough to get an hour. But I find parking on Santa Clara and as I pull in, the meter man is walking by, collecting all the change and I'm standing on the sidewalk and I'm fidgeting for change. I lay out the two quarters and the few nickels and pennies on the sidewalk and count out how much I need. He comes up to me and goes, "Son, let me help you out." He opens the thing, collects the change, and with a quarter, he drops it in, takes it out, and again and again until there's two hours on the machine. I'm like "Wow! Gee thanks mister." and all he said in return was, "Well, I gotta check the machines and you know, they get itchy about it if it don't work so have a good day fella." I thanked him properly and started to walk towards Park St. A big grin on my face. Its not because I got free parking, its because of the simple gesture this man put foward to me. So even this simple gesture could make anyone's day, and for me, it most certainly did. The sky cleared up, my friends appeared, the whole world just seemed to smile towards you all of a sudden.

Anyone ever remember that one VW commercial where the guy is struggling with change, and a girl pops in a quarter for him cause he drives a bug and he walks off, big smile, opens the door for an old lady, she's now smiling, it just goes on and on. The whole world just seems a better place when we're all willing to help each other out. Sure, but I hope now, that all of you wont run out to take advantage of a meter collector. So I've got this to say. Be happy, make someone happy. The world smiles with you.

"Why Didnt you do something?" said the bitch

So i'm at my friends house today when I'm helping out a little in their front yard, cutting branches from their mulberry tree. When this woman with some sort of large bulldog or boxer walks by. Out of nowhere, his dog runs towards the larger boxer and starts to I suppose mingle with it. But the boxer explodes and attacks his dog and naturally, his dog will fight back. Like 10 minutes earlier, his dog had encountered some other dogs and was fairly friendly, but I suppose when that boxer saw the dog charging out to play with him, he started to attack. I should know, i've been to his house on several occasions and when I ring the bell, the dog usually runs up to me and barks. I know better than to ring the bell from now on. So after staring at the little tiny woman struggling with the dogs he pushes his dog away and scolds it.

But what's worse is afterwards, she looked at me. And then to his uncle who was working with the long loppers and started asking: "Why didnt you do something?" She said that several times again and what was I to do? I stood there blinking. Look lady, I dont own a dog so what the hell do I know about dog rearing? You're the woman with a fucking boxer. You should be able to handle it. Why cant you hm? Cause you buy a god damn huge dog and live on bay farm. Your idea of walking the dog is to drive your damn dog out to the main island, that way you can shop and look at crap you wont buy. Seriously, i've never seen dogs fight until that moment. I've seen a dog chase a cat, but that's about it. It's almost like watching a nature program. I'm not likely to interfere with nature. I dont walk up to the television to try stop the lion from eating the gazelle. No, I watch since men have this weird almost inevitable fascination with fighting animals. Seeing this was almost like watching a nature program. It's all new to me. So you tiny whore with dog, you manage yourself. You're on their property.

I dont even know why people buy big dogs. I believe there should be some sort of regulation over the size of dog you can own. I mean come on, this woman looked like she weighed about 110 lbs and could barely lift a crate of light bulbs. And yet, she's walking in the street with one of the feistiest dogs on the earth. It's like a person, trying to live in a studio apartment with 40 cats or 2 great danes. Granted, if the person was a tall strong person, then yeah, they could manage the dogs. But this woman cant even control her dog. Lest even put on it's collar properly. It had also slipped out of it's collar. I watched as she slipped it on, over its ears easily.

As she walked into the depths of hell, she stopped by one of my friend's neighbors and told the whole story from her viewpoint. *gaah! what a bitch!* And then she drove off to her cow shed on bay farm. I still cant get over the fact that people drive their dogs to their walkies now. What is this world coming to? I thought there was a ban on bulldogs and boxers. They're known as fierce animals. Yet this tiny woman has one. Honestly, who would have won? My friend's smaller Jack Russell Terrier? or her Larger Boxer? From what I know, his dog is very friendly. After the initial barking, he's calm and has those puppy dog eyes when I sit at their table.

She had the Chutzbah to call Animal Control afterwards.