“From what I heard, Schmoo started it.” He laughed and reached for another mussel from the bowl on the table, sucking the spicy chunk from inside the shell. I grabbed one, too.
The fight was between Roxie and Schmoo: a pit bull and a Corgi cross. Schmoo was visiting and somebody smelled somebody the wrong way - it was a scramble to separate them.
Roxie’s head comes to just above my knee: 24” or so. She weighs in at about 50#; all muscle. She has grey and white markings, and her left ear folds down a bit askew. She is rakish in her charm. And, she’s an obsessive-compulsive ball chaser with a loud, sharp bark. Somebody finally threw her ball across the creek – Sylvie can’t swim.
Schmoo reminds me of the Queen at a garden party: a bit confused about the going’s on. She struts in at maybe 18” and a stuffy 30#, under a thick reddish blonde coat of fur. Her little eyes are bright and searching. I think she hopes for a lap and a treat.
Clearly they were ill matched.
He was telling me about the time Roxie had gone for a chew toy just as he was going to pick it up to toss for her. She got confused, and was moving pretty fast.
“She has razor-sharp teeth and a powerful jaw,” he added. He showed me where the gash had healed. He still had all of his fingers.
We are awfully fond of both dogs, and working hard on rehab’ing Roxie from her time in the doggie lock down. Time’s on her side – she’s only 2 years old. She already knows, “Go lie down,” and she’s learning, “That’s enough! All done!”
Anyway, like I said, I heard Schmoo started it all in the first place.
The fight was between Roxie and Schmoo: a pit bull and a Corgi cross. Schmoo was visiting and somebody smelled somebody the wrong way - it was a scramble to separate them.
Roxie’s head comes to just above my knee: 24” or so. She weighs in at about 50#; all muscle. She has grey and white markings, and her left ear folds down a bit askew. She is rakish in her charm. And, she’s an obsessive-compulsive ball chaser with a loud, sharp bark. Somebody finally threw her ball across the creek – Sylvie can’t swim.
Schmoo reminds me of the Queen at a garden party: a bit confused about the going’s on. She struts in at maybe 18” and a stuffy 30#, under a thick reddish blonde coat of fur. Her little eyes are bright and searching. I think she hopes for a lap and a treat.
Clearly they were ill matched.
He was telling me about the time Roxie had gone for a chew toy just as he was going to pick it up to toss for her. She got confused, and was moving pretty fast.
“She has razor-sharp teeth and a powerful jaw,” he added. He showed me where the gash had healed. He still had all of his fingers.
We are awfully fond of both dogs, and working hard on rehab’ing Roxie from her time in the doggie lock down. Time’s on her side – she’s only 2 years old. She already knows, “Go lie down,” and she’s learning, “That’s enough! All done!”
Anyway, like I said, I heard Schmoo started it all in the first place.
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