Interesting and Humour - page 61
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Once upon a time I had a wife and a dog of the Great Dane brand. Both of them bitches, by the way. Obviously, there was no love lost between them. Jealousy. Jealousy and a constant desire to arrange some small female nastiness to each other. Which, however, did not prevent them from co-existing normally. And for me, it often had a very positive effect.
For example, the first time my wife raised her voice at me in front of the dog, she simply chased her into the kitchen. She hated shouting at the owner and the nervous atmosphere in the house. Now, if my wife wanted to yell at me, she would lock herself in the kitchen and do it through the glass.
The dog would stand with its paws on the glass from that side and start barking back. Gradually my wife's rage would be fully transferred to the dog, they would bark through the glass for a while, then sit silently on both sides of the door for a while more, cooling down, then separate. The conflict was usually over. All that was left was to wipe down the glass. Very convenient. А! Yes. I used to watch TV in my room the whole time.
In retaliation, my wife forbade the dog to sleep in our room. She had been in the habit of dragging her bed at night and settling beside the bed at my side ever since she came to the house. My wife demanded that we put an automatic lock on the door. Argued that the presence of a third character embarrassed her. Strange. The presence of the neighbours above, below and to the sides doesn't embarrass her, but the dog does. Okay. A woman's wish is law.
The dog did the following. She began laying herself, when everyone had gone to bed, under the bedroom door. When the mistress went at night, tripping over the dog and cursing softly, to the bathroom or toilet, which was certainly happening, she quietly took the bed and ducked into her usual place. As a result, the interests of all parties were formally respected.
All right, we could go on and on about this confrontation. Get to the point.
What is characteristic of the ancient dog breed? Well, size. A delicate mental organization. A small, compact brain or lack thereof. A weak stomach. And, most importantly, a broken limiter in the unit responsible for satiety. Meaning, literally, a dog dog will chew as long as there is something to chew. The backside of the dog may start to eat, but it won't stop. I'm not an expert, so I can not say whether it is a characteristic of the breed, or this one defect in a single specimen. But this dog was known as the Meatgrinder in the household.
One day I was coming back from work in anticipation of pies. My wife had kneaded the dough, stoked the oven and prepared the filling. However, instead of the smell of baking, I was greeted by the smell of misery. Trouble smelled disgusting.
- You see, I just got off the phone for a second! Mum rang...
The telephone, as in any normal Soviet family, was in the hallway. Well, to make it more convenient for the neighbours.
For a "second" the dog dog went to the unlocked, to his surprise, kitchen. There on a stool there was a six litre pan of yeast dough. And ate it.
- You know what I mean? Before I knew it, the pan was clean! It's like there was nothing in it! - my wife said with indignation and tears in her voice. - What are you looking at, you bastard?! - it was to the dog. Everyone was to blame. The dog, my mother, the phone, the weather, the dollar exchange rate, the neighbours, and me, of course. The wife was the victim. She had to be comforted immediately. And God forbid she should ask why the kitchen door was unlocked. Well, "for a second." The timer for the last call was 34 minutes and 18 seconds.
What's a dog with six litres of yeast dough inside? That, comrades, is a reusable grenade. With the pin pulled and an action period of once every half hour.
Just as I washed my face and got ready for dinner, the detonator went off for the first time.
How we ran! Four flights of stairs without touching the steps. First floor, forest behind the house. We made it. Can you imagine a water cannon to disperse a demonstration? How about a directional blast? Have you ever seen a flamethrower in a movie? There you go. That's pretty much how it worked. The dog was pawing at the ground to compensate for the jet thrust, but it was dragged all the same to the nearest tree. There was a lot of traction, I'll give you that.
There were casualties. Yes. Two fallen stunted birches, a bird that was hiding in the bushes, a cat that was watching the bird - all dropped dead. In general, all living things in the line of fire fell off, withered, shriveled up, collapsed, and detonated. A light breeze picked up the cloud of poison gas and carried it towards Moscow. Whether there were civilian casualties I do not know. At the time, information about chemical weapons disasters was closely guarded.
We walked tiredly back and I asked.
- Dasha. What if it wasn't six litres? Ten? Twenty?
The dog looked at me with sad eyes, and it was clear that size didn't matter. You can never have too much delicious dough.
You think that's it? Three days! Three days or a little more, day and night, rain, snow and tsunami, with half an hour intervals the detonator clicked and we raced. Sometimes we made it. Sometimes we didn't. Then I'd grab a bucket, a rag, and go to mop up the traces of our underachievement. The neighbourhood was intensely littered with yeast dough passed through the Meatgrinder, within a kilometre. The neighbours squinted angrily and walked their mutts in the other direction.
I had to take time off work. My wife was at home and a half an hour gallop wouldn't have hurt her. But "it's your dog!" Slept dressed (and what sleep?), remembering gratefully the army alarms "Company up!!! Command number one! Ready in three minutes!". Activated charcoal and some other chemicals were poured into the dog by the handfuls. But it was tantamount to peeing on a burning oil well.
Many years have passed. I haven't been annoyed by "seconds", "minutes" or "I'll be right back" of any length for a long time now. But when I hear "I was just distracted for a second" I get a vision of a scoreboard with flashing red 34:18 and the smell of yeast dough coming out of the meat grinder.
(c) raketchik