Kat Killer or, how do you like our leash laws?
A brief Dog History…
You and I were spoiled by our first dog. His name was Moses, a splendid Weimaraner, and nearly perfect in every way. He could do no wrong. Well, almost no wrong. He wanted to be with us when we sat down to dinner. Automatically plopping down in the Dining Room as I would put steaming plates of pasta with sausages & broccoli on the table, You would likewise automatically command the dog to vacate the premises post haste. The strong tone & loud voice of the dog’s Supreme Commander would send Moses to the Siberia of the hallway beyond. Moses would skulk off and lay down to stare at us and our plates of pasta. Slowly, minute by minute, the dog would creep back into the Dining Room. His fatal mistake was, once inside… he thought so stealth-like… he’d dash to his preferred spot next to me, His Supreme Master, erring in thinking his re-entry was a success. The process would repeat itself to exhaustion. Might be why You and I now eat in front of the TV where no animal is ever allowed to be near. 15 and 1/2 years later, Moses passed away, God Bless, him.
And there is our adored and adopted gem of a Weimaraner, Nina-beena. Another near perfect canine except for her annoying flaw of scappating to sniff the surrounding environment of cogent country smells. Nina has her spots to inspect and then comes home to roost with our new entry, a year and a 1/2 old Weimaraner puppy. Boy, what a difference he’s been.
Croesus, a name practically no one can pronounce, much less understand, has been more than a handful. I believe we took him too early from the warm nurturing of his amazon of a mother-dog. You thinks I over-did the attempt to substitute warm nurturing, spoiling him into bad behaviors. The consequence of my actions… spoiling to be loved, I suppose… Croesus has a nearly maniacal desire to be physically attached to me at all times AND when not, does just what he pleases. Danger written all over him. He can do no right. Woo-woo and wee-wee throughout the apt. in Genoa… oh, he’d manage to hit the newspapers carefully placed in strategic spots, but then, well, he’d make another bio-donation on one of our innumerable Oriental rugs immediately afterwards. From there he branched into a paper, book, pillow, basket shredder par excellence, if we so dared to leave the house without him.
Then, at our home, il Poggiolo, Croesus expanded his field of operations. Deforestation of our garden, clawing the pristine finishes off all our doors… to ge to me… and a nifty predilection to cause a shoddily made old door down in the cantina open to his brand of Run Wild, Run Free. The local Codiponte populace shudder in fear when he’s in sight. I would too if a 66 lb. fritz-out Weimaraner gased from his freshly gained Freedom were to come rushing down a lane at top speed with his tongue wagging from the lust of it all. To forestall such escapes, leashing the dog has became de rigor and an unfortunate exercise in imminent back surgery. Short leads are not the trick. Croesus lunges and my back has to surrender to the force of the dog’s 66 lbs of Weimaraner take-off power. I told You that if the dog persisted to pull on his leash, I would be crippled in less than two years. I am well on my way and despite You’s admonitions to train the darn dog not to instead. Yeah, right.
Things got dramatically worse. Croesus killed a neighbor’s kat. The wrong neighbors too. Ones I had already had words with over a water infiltration issue which, in the end, was not even remotely our fault or responsibility. Turned out is was and still is the neighbor’s cousin, who lives between us.
And aside… everything which goes wrong in Codiponte is ALWAYS my fault: pooh-pooh, trash, car in a non-scantioned parking spot, fire burning off hours, more pooh-pooh, dogs off their leashes, still more pooh-pooh, etc. Never is You accused ‘cause he’s un dottore.
However, I can admit to the fault regarding the kat’s sad demise. I was irresponsible. Croesus was off his lead and I was wrong to allow it. You was furious with me about it. Did not speak to me for over a week. His silence was deadly and made my trials all the more burdensome.
The tragic story…
In the selfish interest to preserve some semblance of vertebral structure to my 220 lb. demeanor, I accompanied dinner guests to their car parked at the village’s Medieval bridge with both dogs senza guinzagli. A catastrophic tactical error.
An aside, Nina-beena does try to lend a bark or two pointed at and in the hope of corralling said the recalcitrant Croesus to follow her example by trotting happily next to me… leash-less…but, alas, not on this particular evening.
Kiss-kiss, Buona Notte to the guests and us… two dogs and a 220 lb. guy… headed for home. Well, two of us did. The thug dog had dashed off before us. I mused that he probably scappated to enjoy the night’s fresh air and its breeze rushing past his flapping Weimaraner ears. Or was drawn to the irresistible scent of food perhaps left on some door-step for the village’s array of felines to feast upon. Suddenly disappeared, suddenly re-appeared… with a bloody scratch across his muzzle. Ah, I said to myself, an unexpected kat encounter. Little did I know.
24 hours later, gory photos of a kat with horrifying wounds were sent to me through Whatsapp. What made the consignments worse was the cryptic and, I would also like to say, nastily sarcastic messages, such as… Have you not even remotely thought to keep your dog on a leash? The double disaster quickly tripled when the neighbors chose not to answer their door chime or responded to my Whatsapp message of concern. I sought consolation with a tranquilizer. I wanted to sleep. I would need re-vitalization to resume attempts to mediate the situation as much a possible in the coming days.
The neighbors were devastated. Their poor kitty-kat dead. I was devastated. A Kat Killer sleeps under my covers at night. Yet, Peace was re-installed and financial restitution made, our previous controversies put behind us too.
Word got around the community. Branded as the owner of a Kat Killer, I had to have the dogs under konstant kontrol, ie. leashes throttling our dogs necks with every exit from the konfines of il Poggiolo. So long to my back. The community would be safe. No Comment.
Croesus was impervious to the political klimate. And not enjoying the konfinement, he took to occasionally prying open the shoddy cantina door to scappate once-in-a-while. The vigili… guys in uniform but carrying NO GUNS promptly came a-knocking on my gate. The towns-people had alerted them to the marauding Kat Killer. The vigile I know said… Konfine your dog or else. Leashes attached without variation. Your dog is a Killer. Yes, sir.
This coming Saturday, two men will come and begin the construction of a concrete re-inforced post and wire fencing around the entire perimeter of il Poggiolo’s garden. Croesus will have to konfine his Run Wild, Run Free within its 25,000 square feet of grassy terraces. I hope he doesn’t develop and inclination to dig.