Bookfield, Chihuahua

One house that I approached in the suburbs smelled. It was the smell of animal dung. The house was shabby. The paint had peeled off and some trim hung from a single nail. There was no walk, just a path of beaten dirt between the weeds. Some dirty looking white kids ran out to see me with their fawn colored Chihuahua waddling behind. The Chihuahua circled me yapping and I ignored it. Suddenly it grabbed the hem of my jeans in its teeth and began to tug back and forth. It began to adjust its grip to get flesh. The kids were delighted by their ‘attack dog’s’ actions. I shook the dog off, but the kids teased me that I should be more wary because their dog did not have rabies shots. I lifted my sales case chest high and dropped it directly on the Chihuahua’s head below me. Direct hit. The dog squealed as it ran for cover. “Oops!” I said, “I accidentally dropped my case on your dog, sorry.” For small dogs, this method worked better than others. They didn’t buy a book either.