My dog has a death wish, or maybe he’s trying to prove that cats aren’t the only ones with nine lives. He can be competitive that way.
This week on one walk alone he cashed in two lives. It was the mail truck’s fault.
We were on the sidewalk, minding our own business, when the driver gunned his engine and roared past. Pettigrew leapt. The driver braked. I hauled on the leash. With a six-foot lead, Pettigrew got further into the road than I expected.
Barely three blocks later we were again passed by a mail truck. The same one? Did the driver have it in for Pettigrew? I don’t know. I didn’t see the driver’s face.
I was staring at the grass trying to find the exact spot where Pettigrew had done his business. I had already cleaned up as much as I could with a bag, but what with his upset stomach and all, there was some left behind. I was holding the leash in one hand and a bunch of leaves in the other that I planned to cover the offending spot so no one would accidentally step on it.
The truck rumbled by. Horrified, I saw Pettigrew leap again. I jumped back. As if in slow motion, the poop bag (luckily already knotted) left my hand and described a high arc in the air, landing in the street. The leaves fell from my hand. The backs of my legs hit our neighbor’s stonewall and I thumped down, hard, on top.
The mail truck honked.
And continued on its way.
We were close to home. Not sure I was up for Pettigrew testing exactly how many more lives he has left in the hopper.
Cats, the game is on.