Thursday, March 03, 2005

My pit bulls and my handlers. N&N Disposal Services Inc.

Top of the morning gents,

Every time I see Nolton pull into my driveway and approach my front door with a shotgun in his hands, it's time to straighten up and fly right. Except on this rare occasion, he wasn't interested in chatting with me, he had an appointment with my dog.

On a Thursday morning, much like today, yet exactly 14 years ago, my $500.00 Red nosed American pit bull got loose and was eating on Paul Hanson's dog team.

No shit, that goddamned pit bull Harley Bronson brought with him from Seattle was surely to be the death of me. In far too numerous ways.

I'd flown Harley up to help me overhaul house 711 and 676. We'd already wrapped up house 711, watched Paul scrape blood, brains and guts off of Front Street, and were stuffing insulation under 676 and installing the barrel-stove sauna in the storm porch kunnichuck.

I badly needed a good mud and tape guy like Harley; I only needed his vicious fucking pit bull for smuggling purposes.

Ya see, we'd stuffed a couple dozen sheets of respectable Bellingham LSD inside the dog mat of said dog's airline kennel. Nifty trick perfected years previously with a Doberman Pincher flying from Sea-Tac Airport to Kotzebue, Alaska.

Oh yeah, back to dog eating on Caribou Street.

That fucking pit bull had already lamed the Peacock's mutt, the Zeiler's yapping piece of shit, and Nate Thompson's fat Husky. Now he had half of Paul and Margaret's dog team yelping and leaking shit all over. Harley's dog was a machine.

I ran across the yard and into Paul's dog lot, yanked Dino the pit bull up off the ground by his collar, timing my snatch when the machine's jaws were slack, and dragged him back home.

No problem, the loud cacophony of wailing dogs quieted down as soon as I ditched Dino the pit bull in the house and returned to my morning constitution. Seconds later, this same dog was leaping towards my face with mouth agape and fangs expanding.

I did my best Karate defense and basically shrieked like a little girl and put my arms up to block Dino's next choice of entree for breakfast. This fat pig with fangs was bounding airborne aiming to rip my lips off. I fed him my right hand instead.

No prob dudes, Dino was happy to chow my right limb to a stump. It's all good.

I slugged and slapped that fucking dog with my weak hand repeatedly while Dino shook my hand in ways only a rabid dog could, back and forth rapidly like a shredded cat.

I got a few good kicks and yells in, when Dino released his playful and crushing hold on my hand and ran to the back room. Undoubtedly already knowing he'd just scheduled his own appointment with Nolton the canine assassin.

An appointment met, just as soon as I spent a day at the old hospital, Kotzebue’s shit ass Indun Health Services clinic; a rural cookie cutter surgical unit best described as the "infection connection."

Laying in the creaking MMC hospital bed with my right arm pounding painful bells and staring at the salty asbestos ceiling was a unique experience. One that I thought was impossible to duplicate.

I was wrong.

My mom always told me not to play with my food. This applies to playing with rancid muk snacks and smacking yer lip with yer own shovel.

It also applies to cutting up and butchering aged caribou for jerky, cuz I accidentally wiped blood and guts on my beard, and fat lip.

When those enigmatic short little ghostweed dope smokers called Inukuns tell you not to get caribou or polar bear blood in your wounds, pay fucking attention.

Mere days after accidentally smearing caribou blood and guts on my fat lip, I scored myself a golf ball sized infection. I also discovered a new form of Eskimo biological warfare. Whenever I'm boxing my retarded uncle and neighbor Alaq, I'll for sure dunk my gloves in my foul bucket of Kivilina blood soup before each round. Imagine this shit getting in yer eyes. Yikes.

All day yesterday, I laid in a creaky hospital bed in a smelly old hospital with salty asbestos ceilings. Yup, my right arm was pounding with IV tubes, and my right cheek was pounding with a doozy of a river rat cold sore stealing territory from the rest of my face.

I could actually hear it gaining weight.

These are the moments of no hope that you wish assisted suicide were as simple and convenient as coin operated cigarette machines. This moment also inspired me to remind all you fucking coppers of the promise each of you have made to all of us.

I do my best thinking and remote viewing when I’m writhing in pain and soaked in medicine. Looking forward 3 decades, I see Nolton arriving in my driveway with a shotgun in his hands. Looking back 1.4 decades I see Nolton blasting a goddamned pit bull to bits and pieces, shotgun no less.

With major medication and minor surgery, the golf ball sized caribou blood and guts infection was eviscerated and evacuated, now nothing more than a blurred vision of a smelly old decrepit Native clinic and an old friend and handler putting me out of my misery with a shotgun.

When my Alzheimer’s, Parkinson's, and accumulated blunt force trauma to my skull render my story telling abilities useless, the last thing I hope I see is Nolton arriving in my driveway with a shotgun in his hands.

Ya see, a promise is a promise.

If any of you uniformed felons are diagnosed with cancer or some terminal shit we haven't even discovered yet, I'll help pay a visit to all those fuckers that truly loved you, even help you aim yer gun at them.

After we're done with yer last and final duties, we won't let ya malinger and waste away on some creaky old MMC hospital bed, in some smelly Indun Health Services clinic north of 70 lat. We made you a promise that we'll keep.

I’ll send word to Nolton and Nay that their shotgun cleaning services are needed. We’ll also include their disposal services too. No charge.

I promise to drink a toast in yer name and say a few kind words. Like “Fuck ye.”

I'll even take my hat off as Nolton and Nay back their patrol car up to the crematorium.

Yup, If I’m still fucking alive and kicking ass, I’ll probably shed a few tears too.

All I ask of a bar is that it be open. None such, so I party with murderous psychopaths. You lot.

Call me a dumb ass.



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