Basenji noir
Sizzle came to me as a criminal.
She was nine at the time, the child of a divorce, the last dog left in her high-end kennel. A bossy retired showgirl of a basenji, she failed her first placement when she nipped at the human there. She didn’t break skin, mind you—Sizzle always pulls back at the last nanosecond.
Nevertheless, the offended human took themself to the emergency room of the local hospital to be sure they would survive. The hospital was required to report the dog bite to the county wherein they all resided, and Sizzle arrived at my house with a “prior,” as the police would say, and a record.
After a few hours’ visit, Sizzle’s first owner—who did love her—left us. Sizzle is the fourth basenji I’ve owned as an adult, the third female, the second basenji I’ve had all by myself. I decided a walk would be good for Sizzle and me, in the alley that ran behind our house in Hudson, New York, a small city southeast of Albany. The alley was quieter than the street, a sniffing glory of garages and yards.
As we walked, our neighbor Neal, a consummate dog lover, always the human of one or two chocolate Labs, drove in. He grinned and got out of his truck—who’s this?
And then he squatted down so that his face was at Sizzle’s level. I froze. To say, Careful, she’s a biter! would communicate my fear to everyone. And Neal knew dogs. But maybe not a bossy, stressed-out basenji.
Sizzle would either love the attention or bite off his nose.
Stay tuned . . . !
Great!! I need the next installment!!! : )