Gang War

The "parade", as I have called my morning walk with its rather tuneless band of accompanying neighborhood dogs, devotees of the big fat brown dog, who is in heat, has become more of a running mob war, as the all-male band has tired to playing nicely. Now, fights break out all along the way--sometimes involving two, and sometimes involving four or five (as far as can be counted in the storm of snouts and tails. It has also become distinctly embarrassing, a riot with which I would prefer not to be associated. (Note, for the historical record, that I say 'would', not 'wouldn't', and that indeed I intended to say 'would'). People look on at the noisy, fur-tearing scrambles and seem to say (or maybe I just fear that they mean to say), "What don't you control your dogs, Mister?"

BUT THEY'RE NOT MY DOGS!