In a suddenly very lame twist of events, the word "Domesticated" is an accepted part of the English dictionary.
The pet owner is perhaps the most amusing kind of passerby you can find
in the morning on the sidewalk, walking in just the same kind of pomp
and show as some local loser of an actor does 15 minutes before a movie
in a theater towards his seat right in the first row. My encounter with
them, however, extends beyond the mere observation and consequent
sarcasm.
I happen to be fond of listening to my MP3 player (I personally believe
they should be considered as vital organs of the human body) while I
walk down on the road alone or ride my bike or drive a car or do
anything that does not involve the company of other fellow humans or
the dousing of the body in water or fluid of any other kind, desirable
or otherwise. I did not, therefore, notice that the dog, while it was
relieving itself of a fluid ("otherwise") on a lamp post, was actually
whistling in a rather disconcerting way. This oversight, of course, in
the opinion of the large, rectangular and handsome lady sporting
holding his leash in her hand like it were King Ottoman's Sceptre, was
unpardonable.
"Excuse me," she said, tapping my shoulder. Perhaps the several
thousands of Americans that rushed to Texas following the Gold Rush
tapped the soil there less painfully with their implements. "Did you
hear the dog whine?"
(This I learnt in retrospect because she narrated how impossible I was
to talk to, which was quite amusing, considering it was the first
occassion I'd ever learnt of her existence being of material
consequence to anyone apart from lamp posts where her dog urinated).
At that particular instant, Chester Bennington was asking: "Can't you
see that you're smothering me; holding to tightly, afraid to lose
control?"
I therefore, quite naturally, shook my head. She scowled at me. I took
my earphones off and quite randomly said, "It's ten minutes past seven."
"I asked you, did you hear my dog wail in pain?"
A question such as, "Do you think it is going to rain?" or "Did that
police van just contain half a dozen whores that came out of the Income
Tax Guest House?" from a stranger-pedestrian on the road would've made
infinitely greater sense.
"No," I replied. "I didn't hear your dog wail in pain."
"I swear he did."
I'm sure she'd swear a lot. She'd perhaps swear he recites ballads to
her when her husband is on tour (or pretending to, which is what I'd do
if I were him).
"I see," was all I contented myself with. How do you tell a woman you
have never met, whose appearance is more frightening than the sight of
a police man when you've just about only "warmed up" your girlfriend
before making out on Marine Drive, that you're not interested in
talking with her AT ALL (imagine the capital letters to be the size of
a large size advertizing billboard)?
"Do you mind if you hold the leash?"
Ah. What a reasonless formality! Would I mind holding the leash? Who
minds holding a leash that has a four-legged, pointed-toothed public
urinator on the other end?
"Yes," I replied. "I sincerely mind."
"You're impossible. Go away."
Scarlett Johanson saying, "I want to have you" can't sound any better than this female Obelix telling me to "Go away."
Subsequently, when I turned around to see where the caricatures were, I
realized that the dog was in fact wailing in pain. I also subsequently
noticed that there were droppings marking a trail along the footpath
they'd followed, making the pair look like a mixture of Darwinism gone
wrong and an environmentally friendly Hensel and Grettel.
Did you hear my dog wail in pain? I'm afraid not, I should've said, but I did see him shitting with frustration.