A Golden Memory

My dog's name is Goldey, or maybe it's Goldy. It must be written down somewhere, we have had him since puphood (he's 12 and a Golden Retriever).

This dog is no ordinary dog; he is a war veteran with two purple hearts. The first battle took place when my mom was walking him through the neighborhood. Goldey was a fast dog (not so much anymore due to his arthritis, but nonetheless)and he had the endurance of a animal-with-a-lot-of-endurance. Yeah, I know. That's a lot of endurance. And due to this speed and endurance the two of them were out around a mile from the house when they jogged passed a nice brick casa with a comforting green lawn. Hardly the home of a red-eyed, foaming-mouthed, man-eating beast named Fluffles to live, and I'm pretty sure that no Fluffles did live there. But the next house, just as serene except for that blasted tree branch resting in the yard, did have this monster (although the beast was probably not red-eyed, foaming-mouthed, man-eating, or named Fluffles). They went past with out a care when suddenly the gate shattered open with a BAM and a German Shepherd charged directly at my mom and dog. Goldey jumped in the way to meet the neo-Nazi head on. They battled for a moment before the owner came out to help. I like to think Goldy won, so he did. Purple heart number 1.

The second battle was also on a mother-dog walk through the neighborhood. This time Goldy and a pit bull whom we shall call Mr. Snouts got a little too close and Mr. Snouts pounced and clamped his jaw around the golden boy wonder. But Goldy broke free and flew to the roof of the nearest house, hid behind the chimney, and came back in his golden cape to save my mother, the damsel in distress. Wouldn't that be something? In seriousness, my mom had to pry the jaw from Goldy's head. Goldy was bleeding and so were my mom's hands. Mr. Snouts' owner could not easily handle his dog. The most menacing flesh wound was but a centimeter or two from blinding Goldy.

So this is what I'm dealing with, a freakin' war hero and enduring casualty. Why would I ever pick a fight with this superpup? Well, because he started it.

6 or so years ago, I was sitting on a couch with Goldey by my side and I leaned over to give him a good pettin' when he looked at me, paused, and then jabbed me in the face with his paw. I obviously didn't cry or anything because I'm a man, and I solve things with violence. I jabbed him back, right in the snout. He hit me again. I exclaimed, "Goldey, thats not fair! I was just getting revenge." I hit him again. He hit me again, this time with some claw action. I hit him again. He hit me again. This went on for five minutes. I'd like to call it a brawl, but it was more accurately a cat fight. I think I won. I went to put on my WWF Heavyweight Championship Belt to prove it.