I’ve been in DC less than 4 hours and have figured out that it’s not being raped, or mugged, or murdered but damn fried chicken that scares me the most. I drove in on Constitution Avenue. It was a bit surreal to see, and then pass the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the White House. It was almost as if Google maps had planned the best, albeit confusing and traffic laden, route. Best route in the sense that one cannot beat passing the White House in their own car, with the dogs in the back on her initial arrival to the Capitol for her soon-to-be epic summer.
After passing the street that I’ll be living on, not once, but twice, since my iPhone hates me, I pulled up to a quaint row house. And ironically, it was just as pictured and described in a number of emails, facebook messages, texts, and phone conversations. I’m not sure why I expected it to be any different, but for whatever reason, I was happily surprised for it be exactly as I thought it would be.
First item on the agenda was to get in the house and get the dogs out of the car. That proved to be an easy task. However, after lugging in 6 trips of my clothes and random “necessities” from the car, I realized that I had not seen either of the dogs for a minute. I panicked. No, I FREAKED out. After searching upstairs and down, I still had no dogs. Now, this is a small house, the upstairs consists of 3 mostly empty rooms, the downstairs consists of a similar arrangement. As I’m trying to figure out how they got out the back door, I turn around to see a doorway. Apparently, there is a whole damn basement that I somehow missed. I trot down the stairs to find both boys sprawled out on the concrete floor.
Fried chicken, yeah, moving on. That’s what this whole thing is about right, how fried chicken is scarier to me than anything else in DC, thus far.
After perusing the lovely informational letter and maps that my landlord left me, AND a much needed vodka martini, I decided I shall venture out and walk the dogs to acquaint myself with the area and figure out exactly where the places on the map are. I choose a local park as my goal (I’ll cut to the chase here; I didn’t make it to my goal). I head out; initially in the wrong direction and after a brief discussion with a gentleman at the end of the street about my “labradoodle” I turn around and go the correct way. I head down 4th towards Rhode Island. (Side note: I told the gentleman that both the boys were Australian shepherds, however, after the 6th mention of my labradoodle, I conceded and said “why, YES, sir, Gandolf is a labradoodle. He sheds a little though; maybe he has some other mix that I don’t know about.”)
So DC is busy. The sidewalks are narrow, and uneven, and god forbid you walk into a crosswalk prior to the “walk” signal. And when I say uneven, I mean, as in 6 inches of uneven. And people do everything on sidewalks, you name it: ride bikes, stand, mingle, chat, skateboard, walk dogs, drink, eat, play cards, blog, text, drink coldbeers.
Speaking of eating, apparently LOTS of people enjoy fried chicken in this part of DC. I figured this out for a couple of reasons. First, I passed a Popeye’s within the first 3 blocks of leaving the house, along with a “soul food” restaurant (right next door to the liquor store I might add), and then another 3 blocks away, a hot wing joint, where you can get your wings battered and fried, or naked, as well has having your watch repaired while you wait for your chicken to fry. Second, well, that brings me to why fried chicken is so scary.
I think I made it 12th and that’s when the fried chicken attacked. After crossing the street, after dutifully waiting for the signal, a gentleman was eating on the sidewalk. The boys were interested, for obvious reasons. So as a good dog owner, I pulled their leashes in and kept them close to me, one dog on each side. After getting to a wider part of the sidewalk, I let them have some leash length. They both dart for the grass, bury their noses in the grass weeds; Gandolf growls, Strauss emerges with something in his mouth. I immediately stick my fingers down his throat and in his jaws and remove a chicken leg bone with the fried batter still on the ends of it. Sheesh, I wipe my forehead and think, “well, that was a close one, I don’t even know where a vet is and well, bones splinter and that could have been bad had Strauss swallowed or eaten the damn thing.”
So the walk continues, at this point we are headed back, the idea of getting to the park long abandoned. An ambulance and no less than 6 police cars pass, all with sirens and lights flashing. Now, for most dog owners this should be no big deal, for the owner of a slightly neurotic deaf dog, this was a challenge, no I’m not going to be positive about this experience, it was a damn nightmare. Gandolf darts, on his 4 foot leash, taking my left arm with him. My left shoulder socket, body, and, then, Strauss follow in suit, jerked by the infamous White Dog. Strauss lets out a mild yelp as his brother dislocates Strauss’s head and neck. Gandolf stops his dart 5 or 6 feet away and then begins to run in circles around my feet, tail tucked, ears back, junkyard dog style, crouched down. I try to calm him by reaching to pet him, he sees my arm and darts in the other direction. Now, however, my feet are wrapped in his 4 feet of leash, I subsequently crash to the sidewalk pavement, hitting my elbow on the root laden concrete. As I turn around to try and see if Gandolf has chewed through his leash and darted into traffic, I look up to see Gandolf laying, ever so regally, on the sidewalk at the end of what is left of his 4 foot leash that is not tangled around my now bare feet, as my flipflops were long ago flopped off in the whole ordeal. The stupid, albeit lovely, dog is laying there, staring at me, with an inquisitive stare perhaps pondering, “why the hell is she laying on the sidewalk?”
So I grumble and untangle the leash. Fetch my flips flops and trying to remain positive, ‘forward ho’ I go. I only walked 30 minutes in the one direction, so I should be 15-20 minutes from my house at this point. The three of us wait at a cross walk and as we are crossing, I see Strauss chewing on something. I, like an idiot, and because I’m concerned for what the hell he has found, bend over, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TURNING LANE OF THE CROSSWALK, and reach in Strauss’s mouth to remove the contraband. Upon removal, I look in my hand to find the remnants of a fried chicken leg bone. I then look up to find the hood emblem of a Chrysler minivan, and realize my mistake and run for the safety of the sidewalk. Heart racing, chicken bone still in hand, I wipe my brow and wonder what was I thinking. Two blocks later I finally unclench my hand and inspect the chicken bone, he got further along on this one, but it appears that I removed most of the bone from his mouth, and throat. I toss it into the grass behind us and move on.
Now, I’m only 2 turns and 2 blocks from my house, the boys are tired as they are no longer pulling on the leashes and actually acting like they have some manners. I march through a pile of men, who are shootin' da shit on the sidewalk, and think “well, that was an interesting walk, maybe I should take them separately for a few days and get them used to the busy city.” I glance down and AGAIN Strauss has something in his mouth. At this point I don’t even try to open his jaws, I just stick my hand in his mouth and remove yet another chicken leg bone. I want to scream. At this point, I want to stab the person who eats chicken, and then throws it on the sidewalk. I literally want to turn around and go back to the pile o’ men, who are shootin' da shit, and ask them to not throw the damn bones on the sidewalk. In my frustration I throw the bone towards the street this time, and as I do so a car drives by, the bone hits the car and bounces back onto the sidewalk 3 feet in front of the boys and I. Strauss and I race for it, I barely win and as I do, I must have let out some form of frustration yell because as I grab it and walk back to place it in the trashcan, the guys that are shootin' da shit are staring me. One of the men in the group says “damn, that white girl be crazy, MOFO. What you been smokin’, yo? Cuz I want a piece o’ that shit, bitch.”
Thus, I find it doubtful that anything poses a greater risk to me in DC, at this moment, than fried chicken.
Endnote: I made it home with no further catastrophes. However, tomorrow is a new day.
Yikes! Sounds like a rough first day.
ReplyDeleteInteresting, to say the least.
ReplyDelete