Gil

There is a new dog here, a German Wirehaired Pointer who goes by the name of Gil. He's an ugly thing, tall and lanky with an unruly mop of spotted coarse brown fur and orange eyes. He looks like a mutt, the kind of dog which always smells bad, but his companion, Pete, a young guy who can't decide between a beard and a goatee, seemed quite proud telling me all about the breed. I only half listened, keeping my eye on Gil as he kept himself busy trying to mount poor Duncan, who was attempting to be polite, trying his hardest to avoid conflict by spinning in slow circles, always keeping Gil at his flank. He's quite willing to go along with just about anything, but the one thing Duncan won't tolerate is being mounted. After several attempts he turned and snapped at the red-eyed devil and reared back on his hind legs to demonstrate his authority. He is older than Gil, after all, and even though he's not quite as tall he's been roaming and marking these grounds since before the damn Pointer was even born. Pete seemed shocked at Duncan's behavior and said something about it.

"Well," I said. "Your dog is being is a bit domineering."

Pete shook his head. "Nope. No way. There's not a domineering bone in Gil's body," he told me and then went on to explain how Gil had been the sweetest little dog, blah blah blah, on and on, finally wrapping up with, "He's not the dominant type."

I glanced over to find Gil hovering above Duncan, his leg raised.

"Then why is he pissing on my dog?" I snapped as I pushed Gil out of the way and pulled Duncan to safety with only a little damage.

I don't think we'll be playing with them any time soon.

And it was time for a bath anyway.