About a dog, or dogs

I walked to the bank yesterday afternoon. As I walked back home, two dogs barked at me. These are dogs on my very own street, mind you.

They sounded angry, one big and scary, one small and nasty. Glad I was that they couldn't get out. I don't know their names, but I know the names of Shuells' dog, Dash, next door. He never barks at me anymore, and Contas' dog, Bailey, across the street. He is an inside dog, and I never hear him unless I ring their doorbell.

But there are the others, and they either bark or get out and wander and make nuisances of themselves. And somebody's dog is barking right now, this morning, as I write.

I counted the dogs in my small neighborhood--eleven. Or ten dogs and one hound. The hound and his companions belong to the Clarks. Clarks were here when we built this house. I don't know which of their dogs have lived that long, but they have always had dogs.

However, all the other dogs, including the two right next door on the other side who bark their heads off--well, not really, though I kind of wish they would--if I step out of my house, came after. So I think I have the right to say, "Look, this is my place, so pipe down." As if that would do any good.

Here I must mention the adventure with the three small dogs at Andrew and Michelle's house Monday night, not in my neighborhood but memorable.

It was a party for Jacob's 21st birthday, but guess who had the real party. That's right, Wilbur (he's little but a big pain), Ready (the little dog whose insides are outside and who wears clothes because she is always cold and who chews her own feet a lot), and George and Betty's dog, Moochie or Smoochie (who is just a quiet sweet little dog at home, but not when he/she gets with others of her kind).

Here's the thing. I like dogs. I sometimes think of getting one. I also sometimes think of getting a new car, which I do not need.

I'll probably get a new car before I get a dog.