I'm Not Even Kidding

Once upon a time, there was spry young puppy named Gus who chased birds and squirrels for fun, took running lunges into lakes in the promise that he could return whatever ball, stick, or frisbee that was thrown farther than the eye could see, and loyally protected the family that sacrificed all to rescue him (and his purebred papers) from the pet store in the mall for my brother's 10th birthday.

He was a good dog, and he still is.  Why am I talking about him in the past tense if he's still alive, you ask? Because he gave up his country living to move to a gated community where he's become old and lumpy and achy and blind and deaf and has a hard time getting to the bathroom in time.  He wears velour jumpsuits and eats dinner at Golden Corral at 4:30.

Once upon a time, there was a spry young man named Scott who lived in a house that he built with his bare hands.  It was made of logs, and it housed his family who he loved very much.  There was a garden that gave them food, and his wife sewed the family's clothes (that her ungrateful tweenage daughter secretly changed out of and into Z. Cavaricci jeans in the school bathroom before homeroom).  He had a dog that embodied the Man's Best Friend thing.  They lived in a veritable Disney Movie of sorts, and this made the young man happy.

He was a good man, and he still is.  Why am I talking about him in the past tense if he's still alive, you ask?  Because he gave up his country living to move to a gated community where... well, he is doing just fine.  He's not old (yet).  He's not lumpy, achy, blind, deaf, and incontinent as far as I know, although we avoid such talk when we're together.  And unlike his aging dog, he hasn't taken to active adult attire or early bird specials.  Yet.

Last week, Gus (in all his lumpy arthritic glory) came face-to-face with a mama deer and her baby.  (Apparently, those gates don't keep the deer riffraff out.)  My father watched as the mother grew protective of her baby, and advanced in Gus' direction.  Just as my father made his way to the scene of the crime, the mama was already in the midst of stomping Gus with all 4 hooves.  (I picture the poor blind dog squinting and confused, thinking, "when did I get so old that a deer could kick my a**?".)

Well, you've heard the saying, "you can take the man out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the man?"  Yeah, that saying meant nothing until...

MY DAD PUNCHED A DEER IN THE FACE.

That's right.  You read correctly.  And spread the word to your deer friends.  You don't mess with Scott's best friend.

(p.s. Gus is recovering and doing fine, give or take a moan or two.)