You Never Brought the Dogs to the Circus? (Part 3/3)
So, we set the plan in motion. A fistful of ham got the dogs into the van, but then came the hard part. Those dogs were going to obliterate the interior of the Sprinter unless someone stayed in the back with them. That someone was me.
The doors closed, and Mario drove us through town. Inside, it was chaos. The dogs were snarling, snapping, and fighting. Before long, I was no longer the guy in charge—I was just another member of the pack.
We finally reached to the zoo, but those mutts weren’t having it. They didn’t want to say goodbye. I had to rummage around and toss out the last scrap of ham to coax them out. They scattered like a pack of bandits, leaving me smelling like a wet-dog-blanket from head to toe.
Imagine this: You’re on your second date, and you’ve invited the lady of your fancy to a picnic—maybe on that little island near the old zoo. You’ve got a blanket spread out, a bottle of Spumante on ice—it’s all perfect. Then, across the street, a white van screeches to a stop, the back door flies open, and out bursts a pack of seven or eight slobbering canines. They spot you and your picnic, and within seconds, they’re charging. The day is ruined, your date runs off screaming.
I’m sorry to say, that’s exactly what I witnessed after unleashing my finca dogs. I gave the poor guy an apologetic wave and crawled out of the van myself.
Mario didn’t say a word—just gave me a look that said, “Better you than me,” as I climbed into the front seat.
Back at the farm, I finally got to sit down and finish the second half of my sandwich.
Because, really, nothing beats a Saturday sandwich.
