Doesn't the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage look incredibly mild-mannered here, just lazing on the comfy sofa, wanting attention from the mommy who didn't actually birth him, although at times the SJG needs to be reminded of this reality? Rapidly approaching his made-up eighth birthday, at first glance, this so-called "Lab Mix," no doubt conjured in some mysterious outdoor laboratory, this rat-killer that once left a mouse he'd murdered on my pillow as a loving memento, this possum-hunter, would seem, at least in the above photo, completely reformed. Impossible to believe that our very own Sir Blakey would still embrace the sinking of his sharp fangs into a squirrel as his ultimate #lifegoals.
And yet, these innocent assumptions would be dead wrong. I blame Halloween. This holiday brings out the monster in him. It unleashes the beast he mostly keeps at bay. Take yesterday. Out for an afternoon walky, I'd done my best to distract Blakey from all the spooky skeletons dangling from trees and planted in the front lawn graveyards that have popped up in the past few days. As they do annually, my neighbors are going all-out with the creepy, spine-tingling decor, even though trick-or-treaters will remain indoors, thanks to you-know-what. Heading home, I thought I'd dodged the worst of the fright night offenders, when suddenly, the dog bolted for the black cat eyeing him from the white picket fence. "Blakey! No!" I yelled. Undeterred, he growled, flashed his teeth, and rammed into that feline, full-force. As for the cat, it just stood there, frozen with a "come at me, bro" scowl. On account of its cardboard status.
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