I was in my underwear and snuggled in my bed under the covers. There's three inches of snow out there this morning - a considerable amount for Raleigh, North Carolina.
We have four dogs, and of course I immediately wondered what combination of them had lost their tempers while frolicking in the winter wonderland that was our back yard. I really, really wasn't in the mood to be taking bloody dogs to the vet to be stitched up - especially since I was coming down with a sinus infection and was already pissed about missing the past three days of training.
I had a flashback to my childhood:
"He started it!"
"Nuh-uhhh!" YOU did!"
Punching my brother. Wrestling. Parents pulling us apart. Kicking each other once out of arms reach. Getting chucked into separate rooms.
Eventually, my parents got sick of breaking up fights and decided to just let us duke it out whenever we got into it. That's when it really got interesting.
"BRAAANDOOON!"
But I digress. Unfortunately, I can't allow the dogs to "duke it out," or one of them could end up in critical condition - or worse.
Boot-camp style, I threw on a pair of jeans and flip flops and ran for the back door. I asked my wife (nicely) to "Grab me a f***in' rake or somethin'!" as I passed through the kitchen.
Armed with the rake, I charged toward the hairy threesome with the handle end pointed ahead of me like a lance.
Our bulldog and beagle had a "tug o' war" going on, while our other dog, a furry mutt named Jake, was on the double-shit end of it. According to my daughter, our basset hound was in on it too, until he heard me come out the door. It was like a public stoning, and Jake was the damned.
After this ordeal, I couldn't help but reflect on the idea that fighting really is natural. Even with our sweet little pups - the big babies that they otherwise are - there is something deep down inside that gives them the tendency to fight every once in a while.
It's instinct.
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