Set My Doggies Free

Most of my stories used to come to me as I walked my dogs, well that is until I lost them in the divorce. This is one of them.

We were at the beach for our last anniversary, but we didn’t know it at the time. I’d love to say which beach, but the statute of limitations hasn’t run out. We had a great week, loving the beach and staying in a campground near it. As I often do, I got up one morning at 6 a.m. and rather than wake my poor wife at such an ungodly hour, I decided to treat my dogs to a long walk.

Armed with a large cup of coffee and plenty of cigarettes, we headed down the street. It was a lovely neighborhood with old southern homes on one side of the street and the beach on the other. The view was amazing. I was enjoying myself very much and the dogs, well, they love to walk. After about two miles I decided to get a local newspaper from a paper box that sat there, looking out of place in such a neighborhood. 

Picking up my wallet and my change from the table as I left, I had just enough quarters for a Sunday paper. This day was going great. I hadn’t seen a soul and felt relaxed and peaceful. Placing the half full cup of coffee on top of the machine, I dropped the change into the slot. Getting out a paper while holding two dog leashes isn’t the easiest thing in the world and the door slipped from between my knees, slamming shut.

My coffee spilled all over me, my dogs, the paper box and the paper I’d just bought. What was more disturbing, my hand was on one side of the box and the dogs were on the other with their leashes trapped by the door in the middle. I stepped back and the dogs just stood there on about a foot of leash blinking at me, looking confused. I had no more quarters and there was nowhere in sight to get any. I realized I was stuck. I don’t know if God was testing me or if the Devil had placed the paper box there to ruin an otherwise perfect day. I may have said a few choice words to the box, failing some sort of test, but I was pretty upset. The box, for its part, stood there mocking me. I’d like to say it said something to really make me mad, in retrospect, I’m sure it did.

I looked in both directions, but no one was in sight. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t leave them there and walk two miles back to the camper. They were more like children than dogs. I started up the street, cursing all the while looking for a makeshift key. I’m not proud of my decision, but it was the only idea I could come up with, and besides, that paper box had messed with the wrong man’s dogs. About two blocks away I found a rusty, worn out lawn mower blade, in a ditch in front of a vacant lot. Gentlemen, choose your weapons.

The dogs had no clue what I was doing when I returned and prepared to do battle with the villainous paper box. They never barked or even appeared upset, but sat there with their heads very near the door and looked up at me perplexed. I had a sword fight with this monster and made so much noise in this perfectly peaceful neighborhood I thought I’d wake up the whole town. Cutting my hand in the process, it only took about 30 minutes of fighting with an inanimate object to win and set my dogs free.

The paper box sat there dying, looking sad for the life it had led and the things it would never do. I want to believe it was sorry for what it had done, but it probably possessed a hard heart and died with no remorse. I looked up and down the street once more and thankfully no one was in sight. As I turned to make a slow, two mile get away from the scene of the crime, I noticed that the police department was about two blocks away on a side street. My heart started to flutter and I moved off at the fastest pace it would allow.

I’m still not proud of what I did that morning, but you just don’t mess with my dogs, no matter how important you think you are. Furthermore, it’s best not to smart off to an unstable redneck while holding his dogs hostage.