Written: on a bench in Lincoln Park
Powered by: vanilla iced coffee with oat milk
Inspired by: asking Bobby to give me three words to write about (he gave me: dogs, leash, blood)
The rumble was set for eight a.m. As always Jackson and Johnson were slow to get ready, preferring to eat their Fruit Loops and watch cartoons (what, you don’t think dogs know what cereals is? Cartoons? Guess what, we know what that hot brown liquid you drink every morning is too, it’s poop. And you think we’re weird).
The twins wanted to stay inside but the need for fresh poop drove Wyatt out the door with them in tow, heading for the café beside the park. Iced poop in hand, the four of us headed for the fighting pit.
All the usual contenders were already there, getting warmed up. Schvitz was loping around in circles, sizing up the competition. Lucy was barking commands, hopping excitedly on her front paws, trying to get everyone’s attention. Sprinkles was hiding beneath a bench, already fed up with the sheer number of noses shoved up her butt.
And then there was Doug. A fifty-pound hunk of ropey muscle and tartared teeth, but I knew I could take him, and I knew today was my day. Dogs don’t have the same misguided notions about gender, there is no difference between boy-pup and girl-pup, no “taking it easy”, no “ladies first”. We shot right into it, as soon as Wyatt unclipped my collar and the formal first sniff was over. We were entwined in the dance of battle, Doug jabbing left with his snout and me dodging right. I had him right where I wanted him when I could sniff that something wasn’t right.
I glanced up and saw Jackson and Johnson in their own human version of a tussle, their nails scratching and sneakered-feet kicking. Jackson managed to topple Johnson to the ground, where he started to cry. His knee was bright pink and spattered with red. Wyatt raced over to them, his iced poop forgotten, and knelt down to help up his son.
I knew then that my fighting days were over. I couldn’t set that kind of example for my kids anymore, I couldn’t lead that kind of life and then look them in the eye while I silently beg for the crusts on their PB&J’s. I gave Doug one last snap to the jowl, so he’d never forget whose boss, and then trotted over to my family. Back in the pit, Schvitz was still jogging and Lucy was still barking, (Sprinkles, mysteriously, had disappeared), but I would never go back there the same way again.