Some dogs go to Hell, and I remember I'm Lutheran

Shortly before I left Florida, a cold front swept through, dropping temperatures and kicking up winds and giving Holly the idea that we should fritter away an afternoon flying kites. So Saturday found us crossing the vast parking lot at my mother's apartment complex for an open field across the street -- 'us' here including Holly, Holly's dog Molly (a two year old spaniel), our mom, me.

Rounding the dumpsters, we heard before we saw, "KILLER! NO! STOP! KILLER!" Given that those particular verbal signifiers might signify any among a great range of content, we immediately actualized the worst possible reality when a pitbull crossed with something meaner and then named "Killer" charged around the corner, chain dragging uselessly behind him.

All of us used to dogs that are not monsters, we watched for a split second that lasted its proverbial eternity while the pitbull continued on its merry way to Molly's neck. The spaniel yelped and twisted, the pitbull dropped her, and before he could have second thoughts I'd moved in, kneed him in the jaw and stepped on his chain. Neutralized. (Just picture Liam Neeson in Taken. That was me.) Mom scooped up the spaniel, the owner came and collected "Killer." We flew kites.

In other news, chief among the virtues of a position in any church's back pew is proximity to the liturgist who mutters to her acolyte minions "Time to rock and roll," over the opening strains of the processional hymn. I was recently delighted by this, so much so, that by the time I'd sufficiently recovered, the entire assembly was looking at me. Then I remembered, "Ah yes, this is a Lutheran church and we do that here," and I, too, turned to face the processional cross.