I was sitting in the parking lot of a largely disused military base that has seen its better years. We had left a vehicle overnight there.
We opened a door to the passenger side door and a mouse was sitting in the footwell. It was mildly cool the following night. The mouse was shivering and we shoved him into a warmer area in the parking lot to warm up.
Someone might have said “this might be the worst day of his life”. The mouse didnt seem to recover.
I had thought of my strange story comparable to my worst day.
It was 2001, during one of the Florida’s perpetual summers. I had decided to hit the road on “Bethany”, one of the most cursed Harley Davidsons ever made. I made it to one of my favorite expressways and subsequently hit my brake in a panic. I aimed for a patch of sand and ditched, doing a flying angel maneuver out of a cheesy movie. I got the wind knocked out of me, a little bloody.
I flag down a guy on his way to the stadium. I borrow his phone, (mine was at a friend’s apt) and call my friends for a ride. I got a wrecker too.
I walked down the road to flag down my friends. I make it a half a mile down the road and a dog jumps out of a pickup truck going 45 mph.
The dog attempted to run after the truck. I tackled the dog to prevent it from getting hit. Subsequently the scared dog pisses all over me. The owner whips around and asked if I was alright, noting my bloody clothes. He had asked if I was okay, I told him the truth:
I had got in a wreck before his dog jumped. He had mentioned that it seemed like I was having a horrific day.
I got picked up and tried to repair my day. I enjoyed some booze and humor.
My lesson to this blog’s readers:
No matter what you are feeling, your worst day will end.
Mogadishu Matt 
A dog peeing on me ended a blood oath.
I was a utility fieldworker in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles with an assigned territory. It was a bad neighborhood. Nasty dogs and barbed fences were the norm. I worked it solo.
One house that needed work, the guy who answered the door when I arrived gave off visible odors of marijuana. I told him I needed access for the scheduled linework. Okay, he said, and went inside and opened the gate into the backyard. A nasty mutt ran out and attacked me. I have nowhere and no time to escape so I stood my ground with my dog stick shoving back its lunges and yelling at the stoner to come get his dog. He finally did. Bastard’s eyes weren’t even staring in the same direction.
A month later working in the neighborhood, the same dog attacked me again on the open street. I beat it off and swore to kill it the next time it attacked. It was a real piece of work.
A couple months later in the same neighborhood. Homeowner is at work but knew I was there. The yard was supposed to be clear me. It wasn’t. A year-old German Shepherd was in the yard, physically but not mentally out of puppyhood. Policy is I don’t go in the yard. What I did: Hey, boy! Can I come in the yard?
I’m not always a death machine. I grew up with dogs.
Anyway, Shepherd putts his paws on the fence, lifts his head over and puts his head down for a head rub. How cute! I give him a good scratching and we have a little bonding time. His tongue starts hanging out so I move on to a belly rub. I’m gonna be in this yard like Flynn.
Then my sock felt wet.
It was 95 in the shade, a hot summer day, and by the time I realized he was peeing on me, my pants leg was SOAKED. To this day, I still credit that dog’s good aim despite having no hands.
I try washing it out with my canteen. No luck. I try rubbing it on the nearby bush. No luck. So I do my work, me stinking like dog piss and the German Shepherd bouncing around the yard trying to get pet by me again. I finish up and leave.
Death dog was loose in the street. He saw me and charged.
Sweet. I was looking forward to this. I had practiced for this. I prepped a Golf Swing From Hell. Forty feet. Twenty feet.
He stopped at ten… and sniffed the bush I’d rubbed my leg against… and I could see in his eyes, his courage draining away.
Oh no, I am not missing this opportunity for justified dog-icide. I charged!
It screamed! And ran!
I was the Wolfman because the German Shep had peed all over me!
Death dog never came within fifty feet of me again. Blood oath canceled.
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Reblogged this on Whores and Ale and commented:
It may not feel like, but it’s true. Every day eventually comes to an end.
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