And then I felt it.
A slight tingle on the tip of my nose, as if someone was gently dragging a single strand of hair over my face.
The next time I breathed in, instead of the peaceful feeling of fresh oxygen entering my lungs, I was abruptly pulled out of my coma-like state by tasting a full breath of putrid air. What is that smell? Is it poop? Is it rotting fish?
No, it's worse.
It's 150 pounds of skin, hair, teeth, and gas. It's George Pfingsten, and he's picking a fight.
As his nostrils flare, puffing more rotten air at my now open eyes, I realize that I could easily fit a bratwurst up each of those wide-open holes. I reach up towards his giant skull and place both my hands in his mouth, palms facing out. His lips are like massive, fuzzy slices of Christmas ham, and by grabbing them I gain slight control of his ox-like cranium.
Then, the sounds begin. If you've ever seen Jurassic Park, picture the T-Rex screaming at the people in the tour vehicle. Now pretend the T-Rex is 10 inches from your face. The sheer volume and intensity of the yell/growl/scream will have you covering your ears and running for the door.
The problem is, when I want to cover my ears, it means I lose my only defense: my grip on his lips.
So I turn my head sideways to preserve hearing in one ear and to avoid the wet stench of his poopy fish breath. My heart races. Adrenaline courses through both of our bodies. Now George is climbing over me, as English Mastiffs do. They are the world's largest dog breed, and they are renowned for literally standing over people. George is making his classic mastiff move.
With teeth flaring and limbs moving to climb on top of me, I give a two-handed shove to his torso. It has the effect of trying to mosh with a sumo wrestler. George doesn't even notice my shove.
Now he's standing completely over me, facing down at his victim with teeth and breath flaring. Once again, my only defense is to cover my head with my arms. As I fold both arms over my head, I feel his mammoth jaws engulf my arms. Yes, both forearms in his mouth at the same time. A panic starts to come over me. Is this the end? Is this the way I'm going to go? Crushed my a mastiff that just came from eating a bucket of crud and sardines?
Suddenly, he releases my arms just a little. But then he catches them again.....and he begins to nibble on my forearms. And he's pinching my skin with his little front teeth. It's as though George decided he wanted to rapidly eat some corn on the cob, and my arms are the ears of corn. Nibble, nibble, nibble, nibble. I feel like a three course meal.
Just as I'm trying to pull my arms away, I feel the familiar sensation of human skin on my forehead.
Oh no. It's his partner in crime. Elijah Pfingsten.
Elijah is staring down at his now-being-tortured dad with a menacing grin. Placing both hands on my forehead, he starts to push down with all his weight on the palms of his hands, repeatedly. This is Elijah's trademark move. It's as though he's performing CPR on my forehead.
Just then, a knock at the door. George leaps out of the room to see who it is. Elijah completely ignores me and crawls for the stairs. I half-roll, half-dive into the bathroom. I close the door, lock it, and sit up against the door.
And I live to see another day.
Partners in crime, pretending nothing ever happened. |
well-written narrative. and the picture at the end is worth a thousand words.
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