Gator Country...

When we take the dogs out for a run around the lake behind our house, Sasha, the standard poodle with a brain the size of a walnut, always looks for this guy (the gator, not Dale). She loves to make him jump into the water. If it’s a hot day, she also expects to take a dip. There’s a place with no obstructions, very beach like with a clear view, where I let all four dogs swim. Several years ago when Sasha went in, I saw three gators leave the opposite bank and make a beeline for the poodle buffet.  All were less than four feet, but to prevent a coordinated attack, I made her get out of the pool. Two gators sulked at quite a distance, but one got close. Thinking that the gator was her beloved throwing stick, Sasha splashed back in to retrieve it. Closing the distance and trying to bite the now magically animated stick, I heard the young gator clearly yell to his buds: “Oh shit, this bitch is crazy!” and immediately take a dive. Sasha swam in circles looking for her stick and lunged when it surfaced a few feet away. I was growing hoarse, yelling for that dog to come to shore, when she dutifully came back in, not realizing that she was lucky to still have all four legs. But Sasha already had a history with that particular gator, loving to run at him when he would sun himself on the bank. He would always take a dive. I had been afraid that one day though, he may refuse to jump and think Sasha suddenly looked like a Big Mac. So I finally called Dale, the state gator guy, to do his manly trapping act. Dale sells the meat, and someone gets a belt and a great pair of shoes.

For Sasha, Dale and for me, it’s a win, win, win.

One down, two to go.