Please Don't Kill My Dogs

I don’t know what exactly my Golden Retriever, Mojo, did–I only heard about it after all the hysteria.

Mojo has a serious problem, see.

You know how Goldens are supposed to be this loving, docile breed? Well he certainly is loving, but only with people. With other animals he goes wild and becomes this ferocious beast.

Another dog in serious need of Caesar Milan. Who knows, maybe I’ll be on the next episode of the DOG WHISPERER.

Sushi, is Mojo’s older sister. She’s a mini-schnauzer, and the only trouble she gets into is chewing things up, peeing on the floor (we think out of spite, because she’s quite smart actually), and, of course, barking. Endless, unstoppable barking. But she’s a sweetheart, ask anyone.

Anyway, I’d made the mistake of leaving both dogs with this rather eccentric woman. She had a quant country house, and portrayed herself as this animal lover. She had birds. She was crazy about these exotic birds. They meant everything to her.

So you can guess what went down next, right? Mojo ate the birds.

Wrong. Actually, I don’t know what Mojo did, but I don’t think there were any birds left to eat after Sushi had made a meal out of each and every one of them.

It’s important I tell you we weren’t in the States when this happened. We were in France. They have different laws there. And none of this would have gone down in the States, I can assure of you that much.

How a plain-clothed policeman arrived at the scene so fast, I’ll never know. He was in charge and alone. I didn’t see his partner, if he had one.

The French cop didn’t identify himself. He didn’t even ask any questions. The lady was pointing frantically inside her house. Here eyes bulging out of her Pillsbury Doughboy face.

Moments later, he appeared with my dogs pulling at the leash. They might as well have been attached to a fire hydrant.  He shoved the dogs into the back seat of his Renault and was gone.

No doubt to “destroy” the dogs.

I don’t know how long the process would take in France. I mean, they weren’t going to simply pull out a gun and shoot the dogs in the head, right? I know here in the States, they kill animals instantly with a lethal dose of some poison chemical.

Images of Mojo and Sushi on a hard metal table with IV’s on their shaved legs plagued my mind.

I had to stop that guy, but I didn’t know where he’d taken my dogs, and there was no talking to the old lady. She was liable to euthanize my ass with her 12-gauge before I could get a word out of my mouth.

I jumped on a bus that seemed to be heading in the right direction, but I soon lost sight of the Renault. I got off as soon as I saw a taxi. It took forever to find the cop, but I finally did.

I held on to the impossible hope that my dogs were somehow still alive.

Up close, I could see the cop was a good six inches taller than me, and had one of those Ultimate Fighting faces, but without the cauliflower ears.

He told me the dogs were in holding, somewhere. He knew I was looking for them. He knew my plan to try and set them free. In fact, he had found me, not the other way around. I was wondering how the cabbie had managed to track the cop down.

The cop had a message. And it wasn’t subtle. If I wanted my dogs back alive, I’d have to pay him. He wouldn’t tell me the exact amount—in fact, he wouldn’t even give me a ballpark figure. It was as though bribery rates were common knowledge in this country.

I knew if I pressed the issue, I could end up pissing him off, and then it would be game over for both Mojo and Sushi. So I decided to ask around. I finally came across a dog lover. She had a diamond large enough to buy a small country, and she said she’d gladly give it to me to save the dogs, but it was probably already too late.

I was confused. Didn’t the cop want money?

She explained to me that he was notorious in these parts for being impatient.

In a panic, I ran back to the lobby and looked for the cop, but he had vanished. Surely a diamond the size of a doorknob would be enough—

There was a banging sound, like someone knocking at the door with his fists.

I rushed to the kitchen, and of course, there they were: Mojo and Sushi. Alive, happy, and wondering what business I had disturbing their nap.

Sometimes dreams are like that—an awful experience, as real and immediately painful as a kidney stone, but when you wake up to “reality,” suddenly the pain is gone. Everything makes sense and in an instant is right again.

Glimpses of liberation from thought have a similar quality. From that perspective, looking back at life, all else seems like a silly nightmare.