Subtitle 1: Truth is stranger than fiction.
Subtitle 2: How to get bit in the butt by your own dog.
And no, it wasn't the Skinny Little Dog, who has occasionally been known to have issues with improper tooth placement.
It was Jamie. Dear sweet gentle Jamie. Yep. Bit me in the butt. It was actually more of a nip. Didn't break skin. Didn't break jeans. Still stung.
I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to.
The fact there was a toy on my butt might have had something to do with it.
I'm blaming it all on work.
It was a bad day at work. A hide the knives, lock up the guns bad day. I got home late. It was almost dark. I was in a seriously honked off mood. All I wanted to do was take the dogs out to chase their cloth flippy and not deal with any member of the human race for any time in the immediate future. Like the next six months.
So I did. The dogs love their flippy. After a few "free" throws, I asked Phoenix to heel. He was happy to oblige. He was doing a lovely job. My spirits were rising. A beautiful heeling dog makes me happy, especially when it's my dog.
The flippy was in my right hand. In the vicinity of my backside. Which is located behind my back.
Which is why I didn't see Jamie stalking me. If the Skinny Little Dog had to work, Jamie didn't see any reason why he shouldn't have the flippy in the interim. At 13 1/2, Jamie wants what he wants. The "don't grab the toy out of my hand" rule has apparently gone the same place "stay."
If he'd grabbed the edge of the flippy, it would have been all good.
But no. He grabbed it dead center. My right butt cheek was underneath it.
In the words of the immortal Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Dave Barry, I swear I am not making this up.
It's a good thing we live in the country where no one can hear you scream.
Then I laughed. Nothing like a good butt chomp to remind a person what's important in life.
Pay attention to the Old Dog. Age and treachery will defeat youth and skill every time.