Nah. You don't know Hank Williams like I did.
There is a little red arrowish dog who swims through the low air in our pseudo-adobe apartment complex. His owner is a sway-backed skinny brunette with an old Beemer adorned with a bumper sticker that says "Bio-fuel for the Revolution."
This warm hurtful morning I let my cat, the Cat-a-Push, out into the concrete yard he has grown into and owned against a mighty Red-Tailed-Siamese Resistance.
Leaving my citadel among citadels I ran across the dog-thing lapping up the inches towards our slinky hero and the Pushkin, 'ero of ages, ribboned under my door and inside.
Sway-backed girlie's boy-thing: "I would have thought the dog would have been more scared than the cat."
Me: "My cat isn't scared. He just hates to get his hands dirty."