What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part III)

“Hey, you got a reel purty dog there. What kind is it?” We were up on Main Street, now. Red slunk down behind my legs like a bashful five year old. She’ll chase cats to Hell and back, but I’m not sure if she knows what to think around strangers. Especially strange old men who wear too much Old Spice.

I looked down at her inquisitively. “I don’t know. I think she might be a cocker spaniel”.

He was crouching down, now. He gave her a few strokes across her brow and scratched her chin. “Boy, I don’t know about no cocker spaniel. Ain’t they normally got long, curly hair? To me she looks like she’s got pitbull in her”.

I regretted having not properly trained her to attack pompous old fats who call men boys. I looked at her and scrunched up my forehead. “I don’t know, mister. I’m pretty sure she’s full bred cocker spaniel. That’s what the papers say at least”.

He looked up at me with a turned up lip. His teeth were off white, but denture-straight. My blank expression left him with no other option than to believe me. Or at least believe that I thought my dog was a cocker spaniel. “Well, whatever she is, she sure is purty”. We said our parting words and continued. I coughed my way out of his Old Spice mushroom cloud and back onto Main Street’s sidewalk.

Whenever I walk down a sidewalk I picture everbody as Shel Silverstein characters. At six foot six and a hundred and thirty pounds I could have easily been a caricature of someone far more handsome. Like Benicio del Toro. Red was pretty goofy, too. She hadn’t grown into her legs, yet. They sprung out like bean stalks with white socks dangling from her toes.