Having previously
assumed the residents of our community are all foreign, we saunter to the gates
and I spot another being. Under a bush. It’s a dog (I’m not all that fussed
over dogs, I’m more of a cat person) and I gently tap Mother – being quiet as
not to rouse said animal. She struggles to locate the dog but eventually makes
eye contact; “OH GOD! THERE’S A WOLF! THERE’S A WOLF BY THE POOL!”
At this moment, the
apparent owners awaken from their sunset slumber and assure Mother it is in no
way dangerous; “No, it’s okay – he’s good!”
Conversation ensues
(naturally) and Mother asks what breed it is.
“He is our Belgique
sheep”
“Pardon?”
“Uhh -- *turns to wife
who is not quite ready for a chat* umm, no… Like German sheephuh but its Belgique?”
“OHHH!! You mean a Belgian
shepherd. Ahaa—are you sure? Hmm. I don’t think there’s such a dog.”
“Yes, it is a Belgian
shepherd!”
“What’s his name?
*annoying kissy-face in general direction of dog*”
“Tusha *reprimands dog
in Swedish / German / Norwegian / Dutch*
Mother gains less of a
distance between her and the dog; “Hello
Tessa!” *more baby noises and weird air-petting / clapping*
Five minutes later and
Mother has Mastermind-worthy knowledge of Belgium shepherds. I am struck with
the certainty that ‘Tusha’ is an underdeveloped wolf.
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