He is too much; this cat-calling is plain offensive. How he knows my name is anyone’s guess. The clapping and kissing sounds are vexing enough, but add to that the fact that he is a middle-aged dolt tottering on roller skates wearing a grammatically incorrect t-shirt that reads “Jesus Love You” and it becomes quite imperative that this man is a situation to be ignored. Maybe instead of gripping white-knuckled to the fence and injecting himself into my day, he should improve his skating on the vast expanse of blacktop available for his maneuvering, preferably far away from me. Does he realize how many other individuals I have running up in my face?
"Cameeya! Cameeya! Come here my baby!”
Baby? I haven’t been a “baby” for over six years. That kind of sugary drivel is best reserved for someone who hasn’t been around the block a few hundred times. Sorry, pal, waving that weed you just pulled from a crack in the concrete isn’t going to do it. I can’t just trot over, accept your whack gesture and allow you to cup my face and pat my butt like we’re old friends. I am not some Runaround Sue. I have better things to do with my life…like protect all this stuff. Milton thinks he has free rein over anything in his line of sight. If I don’t keep focused I could lose this Frisbee or this ball or this stick. The stick, in particular, was hardly-won and I plan on enjoying it from tip-to-tip in the shade of my favorite bench before it’s time to go bye-bye. Kicking the fence now, are we? The prig!
It was the strangest thing I have ever witnessed, Deb. I was at the dog park with Milton; it was so hot today that I thought he could use a nice cool down with his buddies. I was filling up the pool when I heard this bizarre choking/growling sound so I turned to see Frank sitting on the bench reading his paper and Camilla underneath ferociously eating a stick, which, as you know is par for the course for that one, but the noise she was making was very strange. Well, the next thing I know she is charging at this nice man on roller skates who had been cheerily observing the dogs with his kid. Frank had no chance to grab her collar and by the time he put his paper down Camilla was up on her hind legs, hackles raised reading this guy the freakin’ riot act! She wasn’t even using the fence for balance! Isn’t that just something? You should’ve heard the language she was using. I think at one point she said something to the effect of “It’s CA-MILL-AAA, you fuck.” Frank just stood there sweating he was so embarrassed. That poor man, he tried to cut in, but Camilla wasn’t having it. She held up her paw and calmly said “This isn’t about you Frank,” and then started pacing in front of the man.
“Do you understand? CamiLLLLLLLLaaaaa? Now I know you think I am some dummy that has nothing to do all day but sniff ass and eat garbage, but you’re wrong, buddy. Dead wrong. I am the farthest thing from whatever notion you have in your twisted little brain. Your base tactics are incredibly distracting especially when you are some no-name asswipe bumbling around on roller skates – 1985 called, by the way, and they want their recreational activity back. If you want my attention why don’t you start off with a real treat? You can take that weed and shove it in your dickhole. I am a serious individual with serious pursuits and if you can’t step out of yourself for one cotton-picking moment to recognize that then you’re a waste of space. Do you realize how grating it has been hearing my name called ad nauseum for the last 30 minutes when I am clearly trying to do shit? Do you know how hard it was for me to get that stick I just ate? I’ll take your silence as a no. That pitbull over there outweighs me by 55 pounds. Fifty-five-fucking-pounds! One of my many life mottoes is “you set it, you meet it,” which means that I was gonna win that stick. And do you see a stick? No, because it is now in my stomach. And that’s the whole crux of this entire conversation: you don’t get me. Last night I completed a month-long project cataloging Frank’s record collection by genre, then year, then producer, isn’t that right Frank? Frank, speak up! And here you stand under the fallacious assumption that by calling my name I am putty in your hands. Take a goddamn flying leap. Go back to your dial-up and your Chef Boyardee. I am done with you.”
Do you know at one point she used a British accent? It was really quick so you could have missed it, but I heard it I tell you. The man was so absolutely shocked by Camilla’s bad attitude that his kid had to roll him away. It was like he had PTSD or something. He was only trying to be nice. Frank hardly did anything by way of reprimand. He gave Camilla’s collar a little tug and she sat down with a violent cough and gagged that stick she had been so proud of all over his loafers. She didn’t even care, like no response whatsoever. I kinda felt bad for the sap, but it was also a little funny considering.
“Oh Camill, you know these are new.”
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