The Mother-in-law is gone for a long weekend, so we are stuck with her retarded dog, Pellegrino. Let me tell you about him.

He is retarded. Period.

In bike-related stories, we had him for about two months a few years back, and he was even MORE so back then. I guess age has mellowed him out a bit.

Back then, I had a Fit Bikes ‘Team/Pro’ model (or whatever the base model is… i forget…) And it was perfect for running him into exhaustion. I also did this with my Santa Cruz Jackal once or twice. Being below freezing and quite slick out, that’s not going to happen today.

You have to understand, he is all about picking fights, even though he is a dyed-in-the-wool wuss. All bark and no bite as it were. He’s a Lab/German Sheperd mix, and for whatever reason he HATES other Sheperds. Which I find hysterical. He’s anti-social and a bit of a spaz, so when it’s time to go out, I have to be absolutely sure there are no other crazies around. Not an easy task living near 2 rehab centers and a halfway house.

Back to the bikes. I would leash him, and hop on the bike. The DJ and BMX bikes were the best. Low to the ground, with great stopping power. They also have the added benefit of being so low, I can still sit on them, grab the leash with both hands and drop both feet down to keep him reined in. So we would get a slow trot on, and make out way out of the city to Olympiapark. Great place to let him run around, towing me behind and (usually) not getting in trouble.

So we enter the [ark, and I crank up slowly until he gets the idea he can run. Cool. He’s off like a hot shit out of a greased pig. I sit back, all slack and before I know it, he’s pulling me all over the park without pausing. Well, almost. He surely needed to pick that fight with a St. Bernard that was easily twice as big as him. I thro the bike between me and P. and the Bernard. The owner smiles and assures me “He’s quite friendly.”

“This one isn’t. He’s an idiot.” I explain to the nice lady.

“Oh… ok.” She walks off looking confused, but satisfied that I don’t have any psychotic tendencies or malicious intent towards her hairy beast of a dog.

So we do this every day for about sixty to ninety minutes in summer, with a short beer pause for me. (Letting him do all the work is thirsty business, I tell ya.) The absolute best part was, he would get back to our place, drink an inordinate amount of water, crawl under the couch and sleep for the next 4 hours. Seriously, it was awesome.

Today I have already chased him away from the toilet three times, and he’s knocked over the trash twice. I wish he would just fucking relax, but no. He’s retarded.

—me.