“I always liked dogs,” he said, examining the cuts on his left forearm. “These ones just didn’t like me back.”
“That’s all well and good Tyson, but how many dogs we talkin’ here? Five? Ten? Thirty thousand? Shit brother, you look tore up worse’n that piece-uh trash Camaro you got parked out front.”
Tyson shot me a glance. You can insult his wife, his mother and his first born. Just don’t talk bad about the Camaro.
“Don’t be badmouthing Bessie like that.”
I turned to pick up my Bud Lite, “Yea, yea. Get back to the story will ya?”
“Well,” he said, “first off … don’t go to the dog park after workin’ a 4-hour at Rick’s Rib Shack. I snuck some brisket into Bessie before leaving, that might-uh stunk me up even worse.”
“You stupid SOB . So what type-ah breed were they? Rotty? Doberman? A mean ol’ Pit?”
“Nah man,” he said. “They were … uhh … umm … ah Jesus! They were Chihuahuas alright? God damn Chihuahuas. Vicious little fuckers. Got my shins. Toes. You see my arms? Shit!”
I laughed so hard I cried.