Against my better judgment, I decided to take Rocco and Frankie for a long walk on the beach yesterday. We had taken a few walks together this week without incident, so it seemed like a pretty good idea.
What do I mean by ‘without incident’? Oh, well, being a Jack(ass) Russell Terrier, Rocco can be a bit…unpredictable? He’s usually good with dogs his own size, but he has been known to attack the ones that could snap him like a stick.
They’re supposed to be a ‘smart’ breed. Not so much. I think that’s what JRT owners tell themselves to make them feel better about adopting the little psychopaths.
Just to stay on the safe side, I always leave Rocco’s leash on him. You know, so I can easily grab it/him when he gets a little unruly. I learned that little trick after about 874 incidents where he would run circles around a dog and/or its owner to evade me. So embarrassing.
Anyway, we took a nice, healthy walk down the beach – me listening to music; Rocco and Frankie stopping every 12 steps to pee – when I caught a flash of them in my peripheral vision running greyhound-style off the beach and up the dune to one of the tumbling multi-million dollar houses. That could only mean one thing: there was a critter to be had.
Me: SHIT!! ROCCO! FRANKIE! STOOOOOOOOOP!! NOOOOOOO!!
Needless to say, they completely ignored me. After a split-second’s thought of pretending they didn’t belong to me and leaving them to fend for themselves, I took off running after them.
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate running? I mean really hate it. I’m built for comfort, not for speed. I get winded just walking up the stairs.
As I ran up the dune, I saw the head and back of what appeared to be a large fox.
I had nothing but my iPhone with me and I totally didn’t have time to download a shotgun app! What was I going to do if I caught up with them?? Wrestle the fox off of my dogs??
Turns out foxes are really skittish and (fortunately) able to leap tall fences in a single bound. Or something like that. All I know is, by the time I caught up with them, there was no sign of the fox. My two idiots, on the other hand, were still on the prowl – moving in opposite directions under two different houses as I yelled at the top of my lungs for them.
Total. White. Trash.
After a few minutes they must have come to the harsh realization that I was their ride home, so they skulked back to me.
LET THE BEATINGS BEGIN!!!
OK, so I didn’t exactly beat them, but I wanted to. Instead, I lectured them the whole way home, which is worse than a beating (ask my son).
My horrid barefoot run (through sand!!) made me think of my ever-growing list of marathon-running friends. I see their posts on Facebook and I can’t help but think…freaks! Crazy, crazy freaks! I mean, it’s one thing to run a mile or two to keep in shape or whatever, but 10+ miles? Well, that’s just showing off.
Because I’m a bit poop-obsessed (I’m not proud), my mind naturally goes to what if you have to poop when you’re running? Guess what, you guys…they just go ahead and poop. While they’re running.
I try not to judge people. I really do. But that’s just fucked up.
And by ‘fucked up’, I mean impressive! No, really! Congratulations on your perseverance, your determination and your ability to push your body (and your dignity) to its limits. I mean that from the bottom of my…spinal cord.
I kid because I love.