There are those who continue to mistake me for Takut the dog's owner. This includes Takut himself.
They will tell me for instance that Takut should not lie on the sofa on the back patio. It makes no nevermnd to me whether he does or not. What does it have to do with me?
They will ask me whether Takut has had his "injections". How should I know? I don't even know where he came from. In fact, he was already living within the villa grounds when I arrived, albeit under the back patio floor, until he discovered that the new arrival would be kind of him and give him some food.
They will mention upon passing my porch that Takut is jelek, kotor, and bau (ugly, dirty, and smelly). I agree, he is. But again, what has it to do with me? Perhaps they want to give him a bath. I sure as hell don't. He's not that kind of dog. Moreover, it seems to me a fair certainty that he would bite anyone trying to bathe him, including the guy who is kind to him and feeds him.
Takut believes at this point that people in the villa generally like him. He is mistaken. They either just tolerate him or just barely tolerate him. Nonetheless, he will wag his tail upon seeing his fellow residents and wander out to greet those who pass by, not wondering, apparently, why they are giving him such a wide berth as they pass.
The villa owner tolerates him, I suppose, because I am a long-term tenant and pay my rent promptly every month. Others tolerate him because the owner tolerates him. Still others, the short-stay folks, tolerate him because they probably figure he's supposed to be there, given that he was there when they arrived and will be there when they leave.
At the same time, there is a family of cats that has been there since before I arrived as well, and everyone more than tolerates these cats. They like them, especially given that five of them are "cute" little kittens. I'm the only one who does not like them. I don't like cats. I tolerate them. These cats make use of the back patio sofas just the same as Takut--more so, really, since Takut is usually in my room or on my porch.
When one tenant complained recently, as I have mentioned, that Takut should not lie on the sofa, I responded that although it didn't make no nevermind to me one way or t'other, perhaps the cats shouldn't lie on the sofas either?
"Oh. Yes, but cats are cleaner."
The hell they are. Nonetheless, as far as I'm concerned, they're welcome to the cushions, tufts of shed fur and all.
You know, all that any of these poor critters want is a little affection. They live for it. It seems to be their purpose. To be affectionate and to enjoy affection in return. Takut, as I have said before, was very skittish and fearful when I first arrived at the villa. It seemed clear that he had not previously enjoyed a very affectionate time with people. He was hiding from people, just trying to be safe, just trying to be obscure. He did not come out and wag his tail or sit on the sofas or sit on anyone's porch. He cowered and hid and yet longed, as all dogs do, for a pat on the head, a tug on the ear, someone to talk to him, someone's porch to sit on, someone's home to guard.
When people ask me, 'Is that your dog?', I say 'No. He's everyone's dog.' And he is. Some of them just don't know it yet.
They will tell me for instance that Takut should not lie on the sofa on the back patio. It makes no nevermnd to me whether he does or not. What does it have to do with me?
They will ask me whether Takut has had his "injections". How should I know? I don't even know where he came from. In fact, he was already living within the villa grounds when I arrived, albeit under the back patio floor, until he discovered that the new arrival would be kind of him and give him some food.
They will mention upon passing my porch that Takut is jelek, kotor, and bau (ugly, dirty, and smelly). I agree, he is. But again, what has it to do with me? Perhaps they want to give him a bath. I sure as hell don't. He's not that kind of dog. Moreover, it seems to me a fair certainty that he would bite anyone trying to bathe him, including the guy who is kind to him and feeds him.
Takut believes at this point that people in the villa generally like him. He is mistaken. They either just tolerate him or just barely tolerate him. Nonetheless, he will wag his tail upon seeing his fellow residents and wander out to greet those who pass by, not wondering, apparently, why they are giving him such a wide berth as they pass.
The villa owner tolerates him, I suppose, because I am a long-term tenant and pay my rent promptly every month. Others tolerate him because the owner tolerates him. Still others, the short-stay folks, tolerate him because they probably figure he's supposed to be there, given that he was there when they arrived and will be there when they leave.
At the same time, there is a family of cats that has been there since before I arrived as well, and everyone more than tolerates these cats. They like them, especially given that five of them are "cute" little kittens. I'm the only one who does not like them. I don't like cats. I tolerate them. These cats make use of the back patio sofas just the same as Takut--more so, really, since Takut is usually in my room or on my porch.
When one tenant complained recently, as I have mentioned, that Takut should not lie on the sofa, I responded that although it didn't make no nevermind to me one way or t'other, perhaps the cats shouldn't lie on the sofas either?
"Oh. Yes, but cats are cleaner."
The hell they are. Nonetheless, as far as I'm concerned, they're welcome to the cushions, tufts of shed fur and all.
You know, all that any of these poor critters want is a little affection. They live for it. It seems to be their purpose. To be affectionate and to enjoy affection in return. Takut, as I have said before, was very skittish and fearful when I first arrived at the villa. It seemed clear that he had not previously enjoyed a very affectionate time with people. He was hiding from people, just trying to be safe, just trying to be obscure. He did not come out and wag his tail or sit on the sofas or sit on anyone's porch. He cowered and hid and yet longed, as all dogs do, for a pat on the head, a tug on the ear, someone to talk to him, someone's porch to sit on, someone's home to guard.
When people ask me, 'Is that your dog?', I say 'No. He's everyone's dog.' And he is. Some of them just don't know it yet.
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