After I got a bulldog puppy everyone kept telling me that I should be careful because bulldogs are the most stolen breed of dog there is. They’re pretty expensive, and the bulldog babymamas only have 1 -3 puppies per litter, so they’re kind of hard to get.
At first I wasn’t all that worried, because my bulldog is a fairly big jackass so I figured no one would steal him, although I wrongly assumed no one would steal my jackass of a college boyfriend and I turned out to be sadly mistaken on that one.
So, anyway, that’s why I’m constantly on the lookout for sluts named Heather hanging around my dog. So far, the coast is clear, but that’s probably because there’s a big sign on my back fence that says “Heathers” in a circle with a line through it. Just pays to take certain precautions. For insurance, you know? Keeps the homeowner’s policy cheap.
Anyway, recently I’ve noticed that besides the severe Heather threat, everyone that tries to sell me stuff on my porch is also eyeing the bulldog. And it’s not just because he’s standing on the arm of the chair snorting and snotting all over the picture window at them. Shady looking dudes selling oranges out of a van asked me, “hey – is that an English bulldog? Ain’t they kind of expensive? What’s his name?” And I swear I am not making this up, they then asked, “You got an alarm on this place?” WTF? So I was all, “NO, I don’t NEED an alarm because that there dog is a KIL-LER – and if anyone tries to come in our house he gets all crazy and shit and just goes NUTS and I cannot be held responsible for what would happen next because that dog is not right in the head, know what I’m saying?” And they were all, “Yeah, okay, so no alarm, then?” And I said, “Oh, yeah, sure. Of course we have an alarm. Who doesn’t have an alarm, that would be so stupid.”
Yesterday some very energetic folks rang the doorbell in the middle of my nap...I mean, a conference call, so I nicely let them go through their spiel about wanting to become important business persons and that their whole neighborhood back home could be transformed if I would simply purchase nine years of overpriced obscure magazines from them. Because I’m polite. And hardly ever interrupt. Strangers. So, after they handed me over their vinyl-clad portfolio of interesting publications that included “Gardens & Guns” and “Budget Scrapbooking” they noticed my fine lookin’ pet snotting up the picture window. “Hey – what kinda dog is that? That a bulldog? Them dogs' is expensive, ain’t they?” And then, “What’s his name?” A-HA! Why do you want to know? So that you can trick him into coming out of the yard after casing my joint all afternoon? So that you can lure him with a pound of hamburger into your Chevy panel van with no license plates that you’ll lock him in to cross state lines and put him on Craigslist in Wichita? I dug deep…trying to come up with a name that would impart major fear in these "communications majors from Chicago." And I came up with…eh, nothing. I told them his real name. Maybe because I was groggy from the conference call, but whatever. Then I ordered 36 months of Gardens & Guns, Machine Gun Collector Monthly and How to Deal with Your Own Mental Illness and Total Disregard for Human Life Quarterly.
Which I’m pretty sure scared them off. But not enough to keep them from asking me for a drink before they left. UMMM? Really? You are out pounding the streets to learn “business” and you ask your paying customers for a beverage after closing the deal? It’s not even hot out. Being in shock...I mean, the caring soul that I am, I went in and got a couple of bottles of sugary sports drink, did NOT spit in them at all, and brought them out, pushing the dog away with a poorly timed “Down Killer!” which I’m sure totally frightened them out of any plans of crime against bulldogs. Fifteen minutes later, I looked out and saw where they left the empties on my neighbors’ step. Hello? TACKY. If they DO steal my bulldog, I hope he shits in their van.