No one’s busting into Boris’ brown-brick bungalow with the bird bath on the balcony as long as Blinky’s on guard. Why, you ask? Clearly, you’ve never seen Blinky: a one-hundred-pound black German shepherd who moonlights as the gatekeeper of hell.
Okay, not literally—though if you saw him, you might think so. More importantly, the metaphor works. Let me set the stage to clarify what we’re dealing with here. But first, a warning: don’t accuse me of making this up. I’ve heard that accusation enough times—get caught lying in kindergarten, and maybe every now and then, and it sticks for life. Hand to God, these are the facts. More or less the facts.
Blinky is easily the best-trained dog in the neighborhood. Boris—the stout, pockmarked commandant with the eye patch—puts in something like 36 hours a day training him. Probably a habit from his glory days as head of the KGB. Well, it could be true. Besides, there’s no way this guy is a florist—trust me. He’s scarier than his dog, sporting a jagged neck scar that looks like his head was reattached in a mad scientist’s lab. You’d swear he was from the Frankenstein clan, though he’s missing the neck bolts.
Needless to say, I steer clear of the dog park whenever this mortifying duo casts their ghoulish shadows. DJ and Blinky detest each other more than a traffic cop loathes Monday mornings, and Boris and I aren’t much better. Not that we’ve ever met or even exchanged pleasantries—it just seems safer that way.
That said, on countless occasions, I’ve walked past the Stalag 17 Dog Park while Boris, hunting crop in hand, watches Blinky frolicking like a rapturous bunny with every doodle, poodle, and floppy-eared spoodle in the neighborhood. Without fail, Blinky rushes toward the (possibly electrified) barbed-wire fence, teeth bared, and engages DJ in a growl-and-fang standoff that could rival a Godzilla vs. King Kong weigh-off before their UFC Championship bout.
This mutual hatred is palpable, for reasons only the universe understands. And to be completely honest, it breaks my heart. My happy-go-lucky DJ might be the only dog in the neighborhood not inducted into Blinky’s “bro squad.” It’s so mean I’m tempted to stuff a lit stick of dynamite up Blinky’s butt. Metaphorically, of course.
Not.
It’s strange because, as I always say, DJ is a lover, not a fighter. Could it be that this primal, visceral hatred is one of nature’s mysteries? Somewhere deep within the trillions of cells that make up these two domesticated canines lies a couple of mutated DNA strips. When brought together, these genetic anomalies unleash a nuclear reaction of epic canine animosity.
Science is full of unexplained phenomena like this. Think about it: a pair of parched hydrogen atoms, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, are floating through the air, desperate for moisture. Meanwhile, a rogue oxygen atom, let’s call him Eric, smacks into them, distracted by a scantily-clad ozone molecule. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am—a chemical reaction ensues, and suddenly, you’ve got H₂O. Water. Nobody knows why it happens. It just does
It’s the same with DJ and Blinky. Their antipathy simply exists. So, we go about our business with that in mind. To quote the legendary Jackson Browne—this California singer who wrote a ditty or two and made off with like forty million bucks, “Take it easy.”
Take it easy, take it easy
Don’t let the shade of your bad vibes drive you crazy.
Because, really, what else can you do?
