I thought I'd seen it all. I thought I was hardcore. I could take anything and be all right.
My dog changed all that.
I was walking him the other day and he spotted a dead bird on the ground. Now my boy really likes to eat gross things -- poo (his own or the cats), garbage, stuff from the compost pile -- but you'd think he'd draw the line at a three day old, rotting dead bird. Quick as a flash he snatched it up and started chowing on it. I had a split second of indecision, but I had to do it. I grabbed him and pried his mouth open with one hand, pulling bird legs and a wing out with the other. I had a hard time getting the crushed skull out of his teeth.
Finally it was over. I walked him home with dog drool and carcass slime all over my hand, God knows what sorts of hideous bacteria eating into my flesh. My stomach struggled to disgorge it's contents, but I'm hardcore. I held it down. I would be all right.
Later on I was playing with him and happy fun ball, his favorite toy. He was getting excited and all of a sudden he stopped and started making funny sounds. He stood up and puked, and a mix of dog food and a bird wing spewed onto the floor.
I've seen a jumper hit the street. I've dissected cadavers. I watch horror films all the time. But for some reason watching my dog hork up a rotten dead bird wing was just too much, and I joined the boy on my hands and knees and barfed up the ham and eggs I had for breakfast.
He yelped a little bark of joy and proceeded to eat my vomit. I dragged him out of there and put him in his crate, then went back and cleaned up the mess.
The floor is clean now, but my soul is tainted.
I'll never be the same.
I'm not hardcore anymore.


this is in or around Da Street