Chapter six: The tooth

I just read this: “Houndstooth originated in Scotland in the 1800s, it was originally worn as an outer garment of woven wool cloth by shepherds.”
 
I’ve always wanted to be a shepherd since I watched the dog and coyote Looney Tunes cartoons. Ralph was the coyote and Sam was the sheepdog/shepherd. I loved it when they came to work, punched their card to start their shift, greeted each other (good morning Ralph… Morning Sam…), and then Ralph would try to steal a sheep, Sam would beat him up. THAT is why I wanted to be a shepherd. You can beat the snot out of someone and still like and respect each other the next day. Just another day at the office.
 
Kind of like Mike Tyson in his unbeatable period. He’d come in like a mule, knock someone out with such hatred and force, then run up to the guy after he kicked the crap out of him and hug the guy, perhaps whispering “I’m so sorry I hurt you dude, can I fetch you a tissue?” into his ear, it’s hard to know.
 
But I wasn’t a shepherd. I can’t do that stuff. I avoid conflict. Day one as a shepherd the fields would be a blood bath, the coyotes would waddle out of the fields, picking wool from their teeth and I’d have my head down on the fence crying. Darn coyotes just ate me out of a job.
 
When the her saw the coat on day one she went to her strengths. “Well congratulations,” she smiled. “You’ve nailed it. You aspire to be a useless unemployable jerk-ass loser. And somehow with one addition to your ghastly wardrobe you’ve pulled all the elements together to complete your look: a six-foot-tall hunk of nothing. Like I said. Congratulations.”
 
God those were the good old days.

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