The Shame of the Vikings
“The dog of the Vikings!” the trainer says as my two Swedish Vallhunds trot toward him. “Have they been pillaging and storming the coast?”
Actually, they’ve been snoozing on the bed and begging for treats. If they were on a Viking ship, they would have been tossed overboard long ago. Or eaten for dinner.
The Vikings developed this low-slung breed to herd sheep and eat rats on ships. Returning from our walk, we find a friendly gopher snake sliding across the courtyard. Pip hops up onto a bench while Oscar trots right past it, unaware of any possible danger. I am left to fend for myself.
Viking souls hang their heads in shame at the mention of my dogs.
Vikings come from the land of snow and wind and ice and fierce gales. It begins to rain as we step onto the street. Oscar plants his feet, refusing to budge. Pip shakes off the offending rain drops, staring back at the front door.
Sometimes, I hang my head in shame at the mention of my dogs.
Vikings struck terror into the heart of any villager who saw their sails approaching. Pip pauses on our walk, lifting his paw as if it has been ravaged by wolves. I quickly bend over to fix the problem, worrying that I will have to dash to the vet. There is a dried leaf stuck between his toes.
Dogs everywhere hang their heads in shame at the mention of my dogs.
Vikings hunted for their own food. If they didn’t catch anything, they starved (or ate their Vallhund). I am hanging clothes on the line when both dogs run up to a bush, tails wagging. A lizard dashes into the fragile safety of the leaves and stems. Pip and Oscar continue to stare at the red-flowered bush as the lizard languidly makes its way out the other side and practically turns to thumb his nose at them. They continue to stare at the bush.
The entire universe hangs its head in shame at the mention of my dogs.
I am filling my bird feeders one morning when both dogs bark and howl, throwing themselves against the French doors. I turn to shush them and see a large javelina three feet away eyeing my birdseed. The javelina snaps its tusks together, warning me that he means business.
A Viking would have wrestled the javelina and roasted it for breakfast. I toss the birdseed to one side, redirecting the creature’s attention and run like a bunny to the kitchen door.
I hug Pip and Oscar, cooing about how proud I am of them.
Oscar begins frantically yapping and I turn around, wary of another danger.
A large grasshopper sits in the middle of the kitchen floor.