hunter

"He's starting to be a headache," Ma said as the last of the terrified, trembling visitors were ushered out of the gate. "Soon he'll chomp somebody's ass and we'll be in trouble."

The headache's name is Hunter, after the late gonzo author, Hunter S. Thompson. Mongrel, male, black and white. Neighbors say he is too big for his seven-month age and too vicious for his own good. They would look at him and wince as they recall the horror of their last rabies shot. Are they secretly cursing us for not putting the damn beast on leash?

Nah. No chains for ol' Hunter here. We are a family of dog lovers, from our grand-grandparents all the way down to us, and discipline by way of shackling isn't our thing. We despise with passion people who treat their dogs unkindly, especially those who pass themselves around as good, kind-hearted, nature-loving children of God. They're everywhere; I can name a few at the top of my head. These are the bastards whose asses deserve to be chomped . . . if possible by a raging T-Rex!