Thursday, September 05, 2002

On a Mission 8.28.02

These fucking hills. They're killing my ankles. These fucking hills.

And some doggy just gave me the drive-by treatment. I was asleep, my body flat on a hill, head facing the bottom of the hill, and it's chilly, but sunny. The clouds are high. The wind is hard. The grass is green. Lots of young people out, their dogs unleashed upon the grasses. I have my tourist booty from the nearby and beautiful Mission Delores.

I sleep the rest of the content. With my headphones on.

I hear a rustling knocking me out of sleep. As a nervous character-- consequence of being a New Yorker?--I of course stir easily. I shift my head up only to see the squat body of the white bulldog barreling in my direction, crunching grass and spraying spit all over.

Now, I'm also good and afraid of dogs. My heart goes into overdrive. My bladder is ready to unload any liquid weight. My eyes bug out like Buckwheat. And just before I can scream, the dog flies by me.

One of those Croakland dogs, I bet, practicing the doggy drive-by.

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