As you may recall,Chewie had a nasty tangle with a little boy recently.
Things were looking grim for the plump little turd, and all last week Paula and I dragged our feet. Whenever we'd look at Chewie, and his stupid little tail would flick, we would shutter. He was probably thinking "As sure as hell did something RIGHT, because the humans are all into me this week, petting me, feeding the good scraps. Yep, you got it Chewie. You are right up on top now, like goddamn Freddy Mercury."
Anyway, it was like an episode of "Murder She Wrote", the way stuff went down. This past weekend, the kid that was bitten by Chewie was also bitten by his own dog, because he was teasing the much bigger and sort of scarier looking dog (who is really very sweet) much like he had teased Chewie. (Just to be clear, Chewie IS sort of an asshole, and he shouldn't be biting kids. But that's what his crate is for.)
AND, when I tried to take Chewie to the SPCA, they were full up with other child biting dogs and couldn't take him in.
"So let's see how he does this week, and maybe we'll keep him" was the consensus.
Now, here is were the Gods of Justice pull out the stops. On Sunday, I took the brats to the shitty ass video store
(as opposed to the good one
) and we rented a raft full of trashy kids movies. Out of pangs of quality control, I grab My Dog Skip
, which has a decent cast and has a funny picture of a terrier looking at toilet.
So of course we watch all the crappy kids movies first -- sub-muppets, shitty product tie-in franchises, even a stealth Christian parable that looks like it was made with pirated North Korean animation software. Tonight, Ruby suggested we watch "My Dog Skip".
It was then Chewie was bared on the wings of eagles to Eschaton, which is an entirely horrible metaphor, because it sounds like he died, but I don't recall you laying down any money to read this thing, so maybe you should calm your ass down, Roger Ebert.
Anyway, in "My Dog Skip", Malcolm in the Middle's
own Frankie Muniz plays a sensitive young egghead in the South during WWII, and he gets a dog called Skip, and along the way he learns about love, and racism, and honor, and justice, and dignity, and gas, and feminine itching, and syphilis, and he gets his first pair of Caprezios and meets a rough handed Corsican roustabout named Nunzio who teaches him how to wrestle (made that up), and bleh, and bleh, and bleh, and you're read the short story and you've seen the Hallmark Special and you've watched the Waltons Episode, and FEH!!!
Anyway, some moonshiners club Skip at the cemetery, and the alcoholic Army deserter redeems himself by rescuing Skip. The final scenes are the now college age narrator leaving Mississippi to go to FUCKING OXFORD, and Skip passing on quietly, with great dignity on his beloved master's now childish bed.
Of course, the kids are eating this shit up, and pretty soon I have a mini Pieta
on my hands, with Owen rocking the supine, ham-like toneless body of a very much alive and bewildered Chewie, bawling "Cheeewieeeeeee! Oh, Cheeeewieeeeeee! I (SOB) LOVE (HUP) MY (SNURK) DOG!!!!!"
So, it looks like Chewie is staying. I may have to track down some Malcolm in the Middle
dvds. Very effective actor, that Frankie.
PS -- Owen's goddamn feet reek like summertime abattoir. I have washing them with RUBBING ALCOHOL, and all that does is make his feet stick like a chemistry set found in a recently abandoned abattoir.
Labels: The Dog, The Moppets