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The Black Beast
By Milt Abel | August 18, 2011
| August 18, 2011The Black Beast
We have two dogs. Augustus, our first and oldest dog, is a Labrador-bull terrier mix that lives its life for the sole purpose of guarding and pleasing my wife, Janie. He is so devotedly loyal to her that the kids wanted another dog, one that would come and play with them when called, and not wait unmoved beside my wife until there wasn’t a possible thing more he could do for her. So we got a second dog; a 120 lb. mastiff-Labrador (mastador) mix the family calls Maximus, or Max, I call him The Black Beast.
I hate The Black Beast. Understand, I don’t mistreat him: I take him for walks outside our ample back yard, feed him, occasionally pet him -I know that will mean a lot to him, but I wish he would go away. He can’t go away, because when the kids picked him out from the pound as a puppy, while I was away on the road, they had that locating chip buried under his skin. No matter where he goes in the world -and believe me I’ve thought about bundling him up in a very large postal bag (with no return address) and shipping him to South America, that chip will tell where home is, even when his barking in Lassie-English isn’t understood by our Spanish speaking friends.
Why do I hate him? Max has attached himself to me the same way Augustus has attached himself to my wife. He follows me everywhere, every moment of the day, and I don’t want him. We live in a three-story house. Our bedroom is on the third floor and we bring Max and Auggie in for the night to sleep on dog-beds in our room. The moment I wake and make my way downstairs I hear him thump-thumping after me; he’s so large the stairs’ spacing is awkward so he has to let his weight cascade down arrhythmically, a thump-THUMP. He also snores. Almost as loudly as me I’m told, but he seems to always fall asleep first. So each day at home is bookended with his thump-THUMPing and his snoring. Everyday.
He runs off. Any slackness in our vigilance to keeping him corralled is exploited by The Black Beast. He takes off for the nearby park to raid unguarded picnic food and to frighten children. He’s a loving, friendly dog; but he’s huge and exuberant. He’ll run toward anyone at full speed to just meet them but first impressions are you think you’ve trespassed and the lord of the manor has released the hound. We’ve been called a couple dozen times now by people who were on their backs and could look up and read the phone number on his dog tag between nudges and licks. When the pound calls -and they have, there is a forty-dollar restocking fee.
Once I asked, “How much is it for you keep him?”
“Fourty-five bucks.” They answered.
I could get rid of him for five bucks. That’s a deal. But the kids and my wife won’t have it.
He’s also destructive. He’s broken a window throwing up his paws to stand against the pane and bark at a cat. We have a hundred year-old house that has oak paneling, casings, trim, and floors; he has scratched them all ‘protecting’ us from squirrels and religious proselytizers; like me, he’s noticed little difference between those two pests and treats them equally.
He’s flatulent. Dog food is no perfume to start with, but Max has been seen digging out an nice appetizer or two from the cat litter box, so you can imagine the paint-pealing stench that comes from the beast; sometimes announced, but more frequently silent. Imagine the sense of loss in home security when chemical warfare is waged right beneath your nose. Nowhere is safe.
And he likes to lick himself, usually when I’m either trying to read or take a nap -anything quite, so his tongue-slapping and snorking about in his crotch can be heard more distinctly. He has a huge head and a huge tongue so his slurping and snorking is circus-loud.
I know Max’s intentions are good. But someone somewhere said the road to Hell is paved with good intentions; in my case it is a very personal Hell. Not quite Hell, Hell is for an eternity and Max is three or four years of age (I won’t get involved enough with his life to know his exact age) so that means maybe another nine years. Nine years…. or five bucks.
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