I walk a dog.

So the neighbor and I are having a feud over a parking space. No biggie. Friendly words exchanged. A flurry of notes left on windshields. He kicks out my headlights. I slither under his car at midnight to wire 7 pounds of rancid bacon to his muffler with coat hangers.

Now I’m in it for the long haul, see? Broken headlights. That’s childish. You swing by the auto parts store on the way home from work, replace the lights for $20. Or forget about it. If the cops pull you over, you fashion a quick turban out of a beach towel and plead in halting English that Islamic law prohibits using headlights after sundown. But the bacon? A work of genius. The stench builds, matures, especially during August. He never quite knows what hit him. Coworkers shun him, dates decline rides, he sniffs his own shirt quizzically more and more often.

So I’m watching a friend’s dog this week. Bazootyhead. That’s the dog’s name. One of those low stumpy things that weighs more than a bag of cement. I’m a saint for taking care of this creature, believe me, I’m a saint. It’s early this morning, I’m taking Bazootyhead out for walkies, we’re wandering merrily through the parking lot. And I step too close to the car. Neighbor’s car. Christ I’m dumb. I notice Bazootyhead pause and take tentative sniffs…then WHAM he shoots under the car like a rocket. Horrible gobbling noise from under there. RANCID MONTH OLD BACON flashes into my mind. I hurl myself down and grab his little rear paws, nearly throw out my back hauling his thrashing gobbling lumpy 30 kilo dog self out from under the car. He must have gulped down half the bacon. Swear. In like 15 seconds. Freak. And he’s not looking much better for it, either. A bit wobbly. He’s standing at a slant, listing to the right. Odd noises coming out of him. I’ll get back to you when something happens.