OK, so week before last my buddy and I rode out to Sturgis. There was a death in the family soon after we got home and I hadn't been able to get the bike back out of the garage since. This evening, I decided to take her out for a putt to warm her up before I changed the oil and gave her a much-needed bath and polish. It had just gotten dark when I rolled up the street after the ride. As I approached the driveway, I saw movement. It took two precious seconds to realize what it was. The idiot dog. Let out without the leash by my idiot wife. And for reasons that make sense only to that mindless fleabag, he was running full tilt head on right for me. By then I was in the gravel drive. Sudden braking in gravel on an 800 lb. Harley moving at 20 MPH is a bad deal.
Two busted turn signals, one obliterated mirror, two scraped up mufflers, a bent brake lever and one twisted brake pedal, a crunched air filter, one thrashed handgrip (just installed the night before I left), a twisted and scratched fender, and a tear in the leather seat. I'm bleeding from every limb, my elbow looks like hamburger, my leg is burnt, and I tore my favorite jeans. And to add insult to injury, the samich and 6 pack of Lite I picked up for my dinner is scattered across the driveway. Brother Ray and I covered 2700 safe, trouble-free miles in a week and then I crack her up after a 15 minute putt because of a brain damaged mutt.
And the point of this little tirade: a question.
Do I kill the dog for being so stupid that he's dangerous or do I off the old lady for being stupid enough to not put him inside when she could hear me coming a mile from the house? Does it influence your opinion if I mention that she checked to see if the dog was OK before she checked on me? God, I miss being single.
Two busted turn signals, one obliterated mirror, two scraped up mufflers, a bent brake lever and one twisted brake pedal, a crunched air filter, one thrashed handgrip (just installed the night before I left), a twisted and scratched fender, and a tear in the leather seat. I'm bleeding from every limb, my elbow looks like hamburger, my leg is burnt, and I tore my favorite jeans. And to add insult to injury, the samich and 6 pack of Lite I picked up for my dinner is scattered across the driveway. Brother Ray and I covered 2700 safe, trouble-free miles in a week and then I crack her up after a 15 minute putt because of a brain damaged mutt.
And the point of this little tirade: a question.
Do I kill the dog for being so stupid that he's dangerous or do I off the old lady for being stupid enough to not put him inside when she could hear me coming a mile from the house? Does it influence your opinion if I mention that she checked to see if the dog was OK before she checked on me? God, I miss being single.