Fight On

“Shtinky Bun Dinky Bun Dinks, Poofin’ Bun Woops, Schtubin’ Bun Poofers, Poofers Bun Doobers, Dirty Bun Shtinkers Bun Poofs,

You are the dirtiest of Dirty Bun Schtoops. There ain’t room in Dodge for da bod of us, you dirty boy.

Now, get out of town.”

Love names used to attack. It’s all in the tone.

Going deaf, he still hears the fighting words and perks up his ears.

He charges off the big red cushioned chair and ottoman and slides along the laminate in search of just the right soft baby or chew toy.

Graciously, he avoids lamps and chairs and tables upon which rests fine pottery

Back legs wobble in need of two anterior cruciate ligaments.  Where did those things go so long ago?

Rummaging through his basket, he grabs the big, floppy, stuffed Black Lab by the neck and shakes him back and forth ferociously.  He growls his readiness. He approaches the enemy, the guy who otherwise feeds him.

Fight on.

Little white beads race along the floor flying out of the Black Lab’s neck.

“Boomer!” she screams.

Fight off.