Well, the MOG is home, finally. I did good for a week by myself, didn't beat up the kids or get mugged... At the end of October he leaves for several weeks... maybe I should get a dog.
Or not, since I pretty much hate dogs. Oh, you want to know about that? Okay.
When I was little, we lived in a trailer in Cut-n-Shoot. My memories of C&S are pretty happy... we had family living nearby, an endless supply of outdoor cats, and a vegetable garden, and occasionally we heated up bathwater on the stove or collected twigs to burn inside the house! In adult retrospect, I realize we were probably incredibly broke. But what does a 4 year old know about that? I digress.
Anyways, the people across the street had Dobermans. Lots of 'em. And they stayed in a little fence all the time, snarling and threatening the neighborhood. Oh, except for when they jumped the fence. I lived with a holy fear of those dogs, as well as the free-range turkeys. (another story) Living out there taught me that dogs are not our friends.
In Beaumont, Mammaw lived with a series of humanized poodles who got taken to the groomer and rode in the Caddy and had it really good. Suzette? Yes. But Suzette had no use for humans, especially small ones, so we were never close. There was an ancient blind poodle in the backyard that I was warned to steer clear of. Check.
A few years later, we lived in a mansion of sorts in River Plantation (these are the days of our lives). There were no loose neighborhood dogs, as Fluffy and Fifi and such were kept indoors with their toenails painted. (pawnails? discuss.)
I had a number of entrepreneurial endeavors while we lived in RP, from my age 8-12. I sold off my books, I ran a babysitting agency, etc. One day on a matter of business, I walked down to a neighbors place and was invited inside. Now, this lady had two ratty little curs of some kind, probably purebred terrier-whatsits. "They won't bite," she assured me just moments before Mopsy dug his teeth into my heel. I was panicking and trying to shake him loose, and he was hanging on... I limped home with my bleeding heel and you better believe I have faith in NO dog's word to this day.
Since then, I grew up and I have had to butch up significantly since we toured the country and I had to face countless beasts along the way. I bluff "not afraid" pretty well, but I think some of them aren't buying it. I especially try to fool Enoch, since he is my dog-in-law and also he is as big as a horse. Luckily, Enoch is a few candles short of a birthday cake, so he believes what I tell him.
Of all dogs that I hate, I hate little rat-fink Chihuahuas the most. DESPISE and LOATHE. What is the point? Seriously. If I was going to get a dog, which I may still do someday, I would get one that couldn't be stolen by an owl. I have made a few dog friends along my journey, all large intimidating non-rabid-barkers.
All that to say, if I feel unsafe at home, maybe a dog is not the solution. Maybe a nice Glock.