NOTE: In the title, "darge" means "dog." Sometimes one must bend language to rhyme.
Marge is a pit bull terrier mix. Unclear what she's mixed with, but I have a hunch that it's pure unleaded gasoline. That is to say: Marge has some energy in 'er haunches, and she ain't afraid to make that known. Interestingly, she IS afraid of a lot of other things. This makes for a volatile, yet invigorating, walk.
Things Marge has stopped dead in her tracks and then pulled with the power of fully loaded eighteen wheeler in the opposite direction of:
- FedEx trucks. It seems to only be FedEx trucks too, not UPS or garbage trucks (to which she is oddly attracted). Perhaps it's the arrow that is formed betwixt the E and the X, pointing away, and Marge is simply following what she sees as legally posted road signage.
- Noises from the general vicinity of the sidewalk/street. This could be, but is in no way limited to, people talking, cars going by, leafblowers, leaves, the slight drone of insects, and wind interacting with physical objects in any way. Marge definitely likes to stay in her lil courtyard as much as she possibly can, and I respect that.
- Tennis balls. This one is frustrating because I have gotten Marge JUUUUUST to the cusp of playing a complete game of fetch. A short vignette to illustrate this:
- I mime throwing the ball. I say "Marge" and clap my hands on my thighs. I mime throwing the ball again. I throw the ball. Marge sprints after the ball. Marge sprints past the ball. Marge comes to a dead stop right before the fence. Marge begins eating grass. I say "Marge" again and clap my hands on my thighs. Marge saunters towards the ball. Marge jumps at the sight of the ball. Marge saunters past the ball. Marge accelerates to a full on sprint. Marge sprints past me. I walk to the ball. I pick it up. Repeat.
- Other dogs. This one's tough, because Marge seems to enjoy the company of other dogs but she is too skittish to navigate the complexities of long term canine relations. She's sorta like that spazzy kid that we all went to high school with that was always really nice but was unable to make small talk, was kinda twitchy, and just sorta freaked you out. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I was that kid. Marge's apartment building has a line of row houses right next to it that all have huge bay (bae?) windows. Marge and I have to walk past these houses to get to the dog run and almost every one of them has a dog perched somewhere in the windows. It's like a creepy gallery of dogs, silently watching and judging us from huge dark windows. Marge notices every single one of them as well, grateful that they are held at bay (bae?) by the thin sheets of glass.
Which brings me to the story of Marge and the dreaded cone. Marge was in a small accident (don't fret, she is fine and totally back to normal) and needed to have the plastic cone of irritation bestowed upon her head. She reacted much as I suspect I would if I were a dog: willful igorance of anything being different at all. A perfect example of this would be how long Marge spent licking the inside of the cone thinking she was licking her leg. It was an amazingly long time. In fact, she'd probably still be licking that cone if I hadn't quietly and politely informed her of her mistake.
The cone also acted like a sort of scoop for...well, everything. This proved quite interesting in our ever evolving game of fetch. As I mentioned before, Marge typically sprints past the tennis ball but she sorta divebombs the thing. Her head basically skims right past the ground, which is typically fine, but the cone obviously changed the circumference of her head. So now she would scoop up the tennis ball into her conehead, which proved extremely confusing for her and hilarious for me. Marge actually seemed to enjoy it as well, so it was a win-win!
In closing, Marge is a great doggo, full of vim and vinegar and very curious (albeit skeptical) about the world. Walking her also provides an excellent arm and shoulder workout for me, which combined with the fetch playing is pretty much a full trip to the gym. Good on ya Marge!