Yanker and Me - A Dog's Tale

Just call me dog. It’s what I am. 

My man puts me on a leash, and I don’t like it. 

People call him James. I call him Yanker. 

Idiot with a leash. 

I’d sure like to yank him some day. See how he likes it. That’s for damn sure.

When asked, he says I’m a no-account breed. 

Fuck him. 

Hey. Don’t give me that look. He says ‘Fucking dog’ so often, would make a Tourette’s sufferer go red.

Makes my ears burn. 

He claims his breed is Irish-German. Irish Nazi is more like it. Damn Gestapo the way he marches me around. Nudging me with his foot when I’m not moving fast enough. Rubbing shit in my nose that time I dumped on the wet cement. How did I know it was wet. I can’t read. If he hadn’t been eyeballing that little hot number in the yoga pants it would never have happened. Slept in the garage after that one.

The garage is where Yanker hides his kleptomaniac loot. I know it. The kid’s know it. His wife knows it. If I knew how to use the phone, the police would know it, too.

He only ever steals ashtrays, though. Lame.

He’s a closet smoker and figures ashtrays will be extinct in a few years, thus making them rare and valuable. Retirement money, he says. He’s an idiot. His wife and kids don’t foresee a hefty payoff after he’s run over by that bus they’re always talking about behind his back.

Not that he’s so terrible they wish him dead. No. It’s that he doesn’t look both ways when crossing the street. He says it’s not his job. He trusts the driver will do his part, and let him cross without incident. ’The pedestrian always has the right of way. A good driver will know that.’ Did I mention the word idiot a while back? Good. Let me reiterate with a modifier. Fucking idiot. 

The Yanker is in the driveway packing the family station wagon. You read that right. Station wagon. The man thinks it’s 1960 and he’s Bing Fucking Crosby with his straw hat and pipe. You read that right. He’s got an actual straw hat, and a pipe. Guess what? We’re going to the damn beach!

Me, the three kids, and Ozzie and Harriet. 

I swear, if he smokes that damn pipe in the car again, I’m going for his neck. No. No. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not that reckless.

I’ll wait until he stops at the light. No use getting everyone killed.

“Everyone tucked in nice and cozy?” he says. “‘Cause, sandy beach and sunshine, we’re coming to get ya!”

The Yanker.

I’ll let you all know how it goes in the next installment. 

That’s if you don’t read about our untimely deaths in the paper. His drive is worse than his walk.

Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons:https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?sort=relevance&search=dog+at+t...

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