I will not blog about my ailments. I will not blog about my ailments. I will not blog about my ailments. It's the swirly brain here. The fog of sleep is still clinging to me, like cigarette smoke to fabric, and I can't think of anything else. Well that's not true actually. Sitting here the last half hour has been going something like this: I wonder what ever happened to Jane the skirt crapper. I loved that story of hers, but now her blog is gone, and the story lost forever. And the Irish bar downtown that's facing fines for having antique English bar art. Everybody's already blogged that story, I couldn't possibly add anything more salient. Oh look the newspaper just arrived, it's got the plastic bag on it doesn't it? Yes, it does, it darn well better as it's snowing again. Snow, well now there's an original topic. And Dad. Poor dad, attacked at the bark park by a testosterone filled youth. I should tell that story, no, it's not mine, gotta stick to my life. Ugh. My life. Sicky. Better today though, yes definitely on the mend, but nobody wants to hear about that, so you caught a cold, so what. I will not blog about my ailments.
So yeah, I guess you probably want to hear more about the bark park. I hope Dad doesn't mind I'm retelling it. Apparently at the entrance, a man, 6 foot 2 early twenties, arrived with his Boxer. Dad was at the entrance with his pooch and the Boxer ran up to him, the owner holding one of those "leashes" that extends to a remarkable length. The owner is not preventing the leash from extending. So Dad assumes the position. The position to take when a dog charges you. He probably got this from the Dog Whisperer. One leg forward, bent knee at the animal. Something about being the dominant animal. Anyway, he can't remember exactly, but he nudged the charging dog with his knee. Then he turned around to let his dog in as behind him he hears, "Hey Holmes! Nodody kicks my dog!" The next moment of consciousness found him down on all fours in the dirt. His hat flew off revealing his elderly bald pate. He can hear the agitated man repeating "Nobody kicks my dog" as other park goers ask if my dad is alright. The agitated man's girlfriend asks too. As he told me, my father calmly assessed the situation, wasn't seriously hurt and just said, "Fine, fine. Yes I'm alright." Someone suggested he call the police, and he didn't see how prolonging the encounter had any merit. Sure it was aggravated assault, but lawyers and court appearances flashed through his mind and that was it. No calling the police. The girlfriend of the roid raged man hustled him away and they left. The whole time, my father refused to look at or speak to the agitated man. I told him I wouldn't have been able to keep my mouth shut, and I probably would have at least threatened to call the police. He suggested that that was because I have more testosterone coursing my body, given my age, and he doesn't have those aggressive urges much anymore. "You know testosterone decreases as you get older," he informs me. "It's nice. I like it."