Are We There Yet?
February 5-11, 2018
By Jay Edwards
I know a girl, well, a woman actually, who was recently bitten by a dog. “Hear the dog bark. Do he bite?”
Well this one does. The bites were on her leg and not severe, fortunately. It helped that the assaulter was one of those Bichon frizzy-hair types and not a Pitbull or Doberman. I looked up a picture of the Bichon and have to admit they are pretty darn cute, not one you would worry too much about, attack-wise. I told KM about the attack on my friend’s leg and she said the dog should be put in double secret time out. KM is pretty ruthless when it comes to dog bites.
Growing up, we had a dog who was prone to bite from time to time. In fact, when Judge Randy Morley and I were lads roaming the safe streets of Lakewood in North Little Rock, he was bitten by our dog, Blacky, the Kerry Blue Terrier. I mentioned Blacky’s cousin-dog, Mollie, a few weeks back, and her fear of lightening. I don’t remember Blacky being afraid of lightening, or anything for that matter, not even the two German Shepherds that tried to have him for dinner one night. He survived, but just barely.
Anyway, Randy was riding his bike down the hill in front of my house and Blacky, who was never able to resist chasing wheels, took off and caught his prey somewhere a few houses away. I don’t remember a whole lot of details as this was a half century ago, but I’m pretty sure there was some blood and expletives from my oldest friend that I would hear repeated again and again at places like North Hills Country Club or wherever the Razorbacks were playing. Anyway, Randy, who is one of our town’s great dog lovers, never cared much for Blacky after that. Who could blame him?
***
I was waiting on a friend at Izzy’s the other day, out in West Little Rock. He was going to be a bit late so I told the man who was going to seat me that I was waiting for someone to join me. “Ok, I’ll be looking for him, what’s his name?” he asked.
“Robert,” I told him, as I sat down.
My waitress came and I ordered some salsa.
About 15 minutes later, my friend still hadn’t made it. The salsa was almost gone. I looked up and the guy who had seated me was leading someone towards my table. They got closer and I heard the seater ask the seatee, “Your name is Robert, right?”
“Right,” the seatee confirmed.
But it wasn’t my friend. On the other hand, this guy was here and it seemed pretty obvious I needed some new friends who could be on time. They both looked down at me and I smiled and said, “Nope, wrong Robert.”
“Really?” The seater asked, thinking what were the odds. But it is a fairly common name. Wrong Robert was looking down at the table. He saw I’d eaten all the salsa and turned to go find his real friend.
But the seater just stood there, looking at me with a face that said something seemed awfully fishy.
“You want more salsa?” he asked.
“Nah,” I told him.
“OK, I’ll try and bring you the right Robert next time.”
A few minutes later he was walking back towards me with the right Robert. They were talking and it seemed they knew each other.
Right Robert sat down, frowned at the salsa remains and I asked him if he knew the seater. He told me he did, that he is the owner and his name is Robert.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
See all of Jay’s past columns on our website at www.dailyrecord.us.
