Vengeful Chicken Disease

I have Vengeful Chicken Disease. It's the disease you get when you plot revenge for years and are too chicken to execute the plan. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Did I never tell you about the Heinous Dog-Kicking Incident of 2001? I didn't?

One score and sixteen months ago, Mun brought forth a great dog from Pasadena: a 13 year old, arthritic sweet pea who was orphaned when my grandmother died. I can imagine if you didn't know Fergie, she might look like the type of dog that has a mean temper. She resembled a cross between a German Shepherd and a coyote. She was in fact an utterly harmless love-bomb who even got along with my cats.

One of the toughest things about taking care of Fergie for me was the early morning walking required. Usually at 6:00 am or so, she would let me know she needed to go out. I am not a morning person. The last thing I feel like doing the split second I wake up is going out of my apartment and interacting with my neighbors.

One of these groggy early mornings, Fergie was very stiff and we started our walk. One stretch of the sidewalk on my block feels rather narrow because on one side there is a wall and on the other, some thick bushes instead of grass. In the middle of this stretch, I saw a tall, old man with a baseball cap and very straight posture coming toward us rapidly.

I tried to move Fergie to the side, but couldn't do it very quickly because her hip dysplasia made her susceptible to falling. Also, with the bushes, there was nowhere to go. The man did not slow down or make any effort to go around us. Fergie moved her snout slightly forward to sniff him, but not in a threatening manner. I was shocked when he proceeded to kick the decrepit dog out of the way. Once she was out of his way he stopped and smiled an evil fucking smile at me, and for no reason, kicked her again.

I was so stunned I basically had no fitting reaction and the man disappeared. For an old man, he was in pretty good shape and had given Fergie a couple of medium strength kicks in the ribs. The anger slowly worked its way up in me so that it reached a fever pitch a few hours later. I vowed that if I ever saw the man again I would follow him, find out where he lived, and exact revenge.

I had several revenge fantasies. Spell "Asshole" in dog crap on his lawn. Beat him repeatedly with a baseball bat and bust his kneecaps.

Dicky Bird at work suggested I instead spell "Asshole" in gasoline on his lawn and light it on fire. Or put popcorn in his muffler and other tricks out of the book Getting Even.

Part of me wanted the old man to undergo a kind of punishment that would not only make him suffer, but would also somehow transform him into a person that is nice to dogs. However, I couldn't stop fixating on punishments involving dog shit and baseball bats.

Unfortunately the next time I saw the man, I was walking Fergie and couldn't get her home in time to start the pursuit.

I saw him yet again months later, but in typical gutless fashion, I was in a hurry to go somewhere and merely muttered "Asshole" at him. If he's hard of hearing, he probably didn't even hear me. But the plotting of vengeance continued.

I envisioned many bashings with a tire iron. Many ninja style fuckings up of his car and home. Bags of dog shit set aflame on his porch.

After a year and a half, Fergie couldn't stand up by herself anymore and I had to put her to sleep. Another two years past and I didn't see the old man walking...until recently when I got another chance.

Yes, it was the same dog kicking motherfucker with a baseball cap and stiff posture who looked like he could have been a former CEO or vice president of an insurance company. The timing was perfect. I was just about to get in my car and go to work.

But instead I tailed him for twenty-five minutes. He walked and walked. Head home you creepy fuck! Finally he disappeared into a nice house on a street lined with blooming jacaranda trees literally two blocks away from my apartment.

I've got loose lips. If you're ever plotting something really rotten and devious that can never be revealed I recommend not telling me. I can usually keep other people's secrets under my hat for a few years max. Eventually it comes out, like shrapnel comes out of survivors' skin years after a bombing.

I happened to mention this little saga to my co-worker, Albert, who apparently has the kind of twisted mind that is able to come up with diabolical scenarios of poetic justice. You simply input the variables and the solution pops out like a gumball:

Blind the old man.

That way a) He suffers and b) He may end up getting a seeing-eye dog.

Okay, it's not foolproof, but it's good. (Unless he ends up being mean to the seeing-eye dog.Or his potentially innocent family members pay the price of having to provide 24 hour care for this person they know is basically a nazi. And think of the poor social workers and nurses who will have to interact with him...Shut up, damned conscience!)

Alas, if I were now to go through with the bludgeoning, I've chatted about the whole thing with too many people to get away with it.

But if I merely suggest to the general public that it would be fine by me if someone threw lye in the eyes of the old man that lives at 25xx Greenfield*, would I be culpable in any way? Could I be charged with conspiracy to commit mayhem?

What if I merely invited you to let your dog relieve itself repeatedly on the lawn at 25xx Greenfield Avenue? In fact, feel free to deposit all your dog feces at 25xx Greenfield. That's 25xx Greenfield Avenue.

...I will wait over here for you.

*I  'X'd out the address on 7-26-04 just in case one of you turns coo coo.