My Dog is Not a Racist!

 My Dog is Not a Racist!

When I was in the 7th grade, my parents bought my brother and I a chihuahua puppy.  I named him Tony.  He lived to the ripe old age of 15.  I’ve written of him in the past, even wrote a song for him called Walk the Dog.  I loved that dog, and he loved me.  He was a little shit to most people including my brother.  One of the highlights of his day was mid afternoon when he would keep one eye on the door for the mailman.  He was always trying to attack the mailman.  

For many of those years, our mailman was a nice African American gentleman.  He was always in a good mood.  Even though Tony had made it his goal in life to eat our carrier, the mailman didn’t seem to mind.  When the front wooden door was open, and Tony saw the silhouette of the mailman as he went up the steps to drop off the mail in the box, he would charge the fairly sturdy screen/glass door.  He had figured out that if he hit that door just right it would shake enough to release the latch.  Then it was on.  Barking, nipping at ankles.  He was on a mission to eat our poor mailman for wandering into his space unapologetically.  

I would always run out the door after him and scoop him up quickly and assuring the mailman that it wasn’t in the door’s design to burst open like that.  He would be in the middle of his “Don’t Bite Me Tony Dance.”  Tony never got him.  One fine day the two were engaged in this front yard escapade and upon catching him, the mail man said, “I think he’s starting to like me.”  I informed him that this was in fact not the case.  

“Mr Man, my dog wants to eat you.  It’s not because of your skin color.  Please don’t think that I have raised a racist dog.  He hated the mailman before you just as much, and he was white.  He wants to eat you.  Please be careful.  I don’t want him to bite you.  I will try harder to keep the screen door closed.”

I don’t actually know if Tony would have eaten him.  A part of me wants to believe that to him it was just a game.  A way to amuse himself in the afternoon between naps and sitting in the window waiting for my dad to get home.  Like I said, I loved Tony.  I miss him.  I just hope he is in doggy heaven with a pound of bacon in his bowel and one of my mom’s work boots in shreds around his bed.  

Happy Tuesday, friends.  Be well.  Be safe.  Be kind.