The Trials of Miles: It is a good day to die.
During the battle of the Little Big Horn, which resulted in the none too soon demise of the yellow mustachioed General George Custer, Crazy Horse, perhaps the bravest man to have ever lived, looked with stealy eyes on his gathering enemy and said: "It is a good day to die." Whether Crazy Horse meant he foresaw his own death, which came much later, or he was speaking for General Custer, who didn't make it to lunchtime, is anyone's guess. It's a ballsy thing to say, any way you slice it, and I do believe, with all respect due to that Native American superhero whose remarkably catchy oath lives on in a million bastardized permutations both in film and literature, (so I don't feel too bad using it here,) it is the credo of my dog Miles.
I can practically see the words forming in his tiny doggy skull as we approach the site of his Little Big Horn, his Waterloo, his Gettysburg. On the corner of Smith and Wilkins there lives a dog whose enormousnous is barely contained by a very flimsy fence. Miles tenses as we approach, starts to snarl like a deranged hamster, and is pulling on the leash with every ounce of his tiny body, determined to kill the dog who lives on the other side. If Miles were ever to meet this enemy nose to nose, I feel certain he would be somewhat surprised by his own relative tininess, because I can tell without ever having actually seen this dog: he's HUGE. He sounds like the two headed dog of Hades when he hits that fence at full gallop, and runs alongside as we make our way along the sidewalk, snarling and scratching at the wood, trying to force his bowling-ball sized nose through the centimeter gap between the slats.
We've never met this dog walking, and I hope we never do. I feel certain that Miles, who knows this dog's smell like he knows his own nightmares, will recognize him instantly, and there will ensue a battle that will be sadly reminiscent of the Battle of the Little Big Horn. Only this time, Miles might be quoting the outnumbered Custer, whose last words, forever lost to history, can, I suspect, be summed up as: "Oops."
I can practically see the words forming in his tiny doggy skull as we approach the site of his Little Big Horn, his Waterloo, his Gettysburg. On the corner of Smith and Wilkins there lives a dog whose enormousnous is barely contained by a very flimsy fence. Miles tenses as we approach, starts to snarl like a deranged hamster, and is pulling on the leash with every ounce of his tiny body, determined to kill the dog who lives on the other side. If Miles were ever to meet this enemy nose to nose, I feel certain he would be somewhat surprised by his own relative tininess, because I can tell without ever having actually seen this dog: he's HUGE. He sounds like the two headed dog of Hades when he hits that fence at full gallop, and runs alongside as we make our way along the sidewalk, snarling and scratching at the wood, trying to force his bowling-ball sized nose through the centimeter gap between the slats.
We've never met this dog walking, and I hope we never do. I feel certain that Miles, who knows this dog's smell like he knows his own nightmares, will recognize him instantly, and there will ensue a battle that will be sadly reminiscent of the Battle of the Little Big Horn. Only this time, Miles might be quoting the outnumbered Custer, whose last words, forever lost to history, can, I suspect, be summed up as: "Oops."
posted by Amy at 1:23 PM
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