The Chicken Lady

            My friend mentioned to me that if the dogs should somehow escape that they’ll run to a neighbor’s house, for the neighbor was prone to feed them chicken. Sure enough, that’s where I found them. They were barking at her gate. The lady was in a tizzy when I walked up. She was trying to hold back her dogs, and greet the yappy dogs that had escaped.

            She was an older skinny lady. She was wearing a pair of blue short pants that displayed her rail thin legs.

            “Hi my name is Anthony.”

            “Don’t you have control of those dogs?”

            “Not really.”

            “You’ve got to control them!”

            I felt myself ready to anger with her comment, but I didn’t fall into the trap and decided to charm her instead. I gave her the soft eyes and wit, mixed with some honesty and pinch of humility, by the end of the conversation the chicken lady was mine.

            “You’re such a handsome young man,” she said to me before I departed.
            Thank you chicken lady.

Let The Little Dogs Run

            A friend of mine asked me to walk her dogs for a day while she was out of town. There are four dogs in total, a big smokey gray Pit Bull named Blueberry and two little dogs and another big one. She explained to me the procedure. I was to walk Blueberry first and then the two little ones, and then the big old timer after that.

            I walked Blueberry. She and I had a good time. I was set to walk the little dogs. I had them on their leashes and was attempting to open the gate when Blueberry and the big old timer started nudging at the gate door trying to get past me. The two little dogs were yapping. They were eager to take a walk, but Blueberry and the old timer had other ideas. I was trying to keep them back so they didn’t escape, but it was as though they formulated a plan behind my back, and ganged up on me. There was a lot of confusion. The little dogs were yapping and the big ones were nudging at the gate, the dogs had turned stubborn and weren't listening to my commands. I was trying to control the situation the best I could. I felt like a substitute teacher. I was being abused. The little dogs' leashes got tangled up around the legs of the big dogs. I finally gave up, and let the little dogs run. 

You've Got To Burn To Tan

            I went to the beach yesterday. It’s now autumn so the crowds have dissipated some since my last visit. I like to travel north towards Malibu when I go to the beach. It was high tide when we got there. Much of the sand was covered by water, leaving few options to make camp.

            I noticed there were a lot of tourists. I can spot a tourist pretty easily. It’s their beach manner that gives them away. A family walked up and made camp near by.  The father was wearing all black. Californians don’t wear all black to the beach. It’s rare when they do. The father started aggressively throwing seaweed off to the side to clear a clean space for his blankets. He was grabbing big handfuls of sand with the seaweed. The sand was flying through the air. Luckily, it wasn’t windy or we would’ve had a problem. Californians are sand conscious, we don’t throw sand wildly through the air. Sand travels well, and it irritates people when it hits them.  The other hint that the family was from out of town was that the father didn’t take his shirt off and sat under an umbrella. He was scared to burn. Californians know you've got burn to tan.