Len Robbins

While dogs may indeed be man’s best friend, they can also be his greatest enemy.

That statement also makes sense if you substitute dogs with: Women, children, good horses, guns, football, poker, bachelor parties or Mexican food.

But enough about the components of my weekend. Back to dogs.

I have recently gone nose-to-nose with some dogs who certainly fall in the man’s greatest enemy category. These aren’t happy-go-lucky, lick-you-in-the-face, always-happy-to-see-you, too-friendly-to-your-leg dogs. These are riff-raff, rabble-rousing rovers, maliciously mad mutts, corrupting, conniving canines – the kind of dogs that give good dogs bad ideas.

If these dogs were human (a possibility), they would be street punks, hanging out on the corner, bullying 8-year-olds to give up their lunch money so they could juggle kittens and buy some spray paint to vandalize the nunnery.

I first came upon these doggy delinquents in my front yard, heretofore known as the battlefield.

A couple of weeks ago, I started noticing these odd patches in my yard, where it seemed something had been digging, tearing up major portions of perfectly good grass. I also noticed that someone/something had knocked down my garbage can, littering messy refuse all over my driveway.

I figured it was the workings of my own dog, or some other animal, or a UFO had landed nearby. My dog is pretty much an inside dog, though, and about 80 years old (in human years). Of course, being a sane, realistic person, I decided it was a UFO and ignored it.

But every day, there was a different spot in the yard where these mysterious varmints had dug into the soil. There weren’t really any distinguishing marks. Was it a group of raccoons? A hungry ‘possum? A lost doe? Sasquatch?

Finally, one morning as I was getting in the shower, I saw them. There were three of them – two little black and gray ones, and one big yellow one – dogs all.

I watched them for a little while. Yes, here were my culprits. The two little ones were digging next to a tree while the big yellow one watched over them, supervising. I figured him for their leader.

After a few minutes of strategic analysis, I burst out of the bathroom and ran outside. As I ran out the door toward my newly identified El Guapos, I realized I was wearing nothing but a towel. It was 7:15 in the morning and rather chilly for a January morn in South Georgia.

So, I ran out toward them, waving my arms, screaming. I expected them to jump up from their digging and haul tail like a bunch of scared dogs. But they didn’t.

No, these arrogant hounds looked up at the half-naked fool running across the yard and trotted off slowly, nonchalantly, very unconcerned.

Since then, every morning, it’s been a case of cat-and-mouse, or dogs-and-man, with the dogs having the benefit of not having jobs. Every time I wake up early to catch them, they wait until I’ve gone to work to do their business. And when I come home for a surprise attack, they’ve already done their dirty work, and are probably out stealing some unsuspecting dog’s water bowl.

I’m a beaten man – a man who has decided to let digging dogs dig.

Man’s best friend? I don’t think so. My vote now goes to Mexican food.

© Len Robbins 2023