One man and his dog
|May 27, 2011||Posted by Fergus Doyle under satire|
You’re walking down the street one day, and you see a Man walking his Dog. You’ve see these two before, the Man and the Dog, but never together. The Man is old, and wears a shabby blue suit. He usually stays out of the way, but now he’s out and about, swaggering around like he owns the place. This is probably because of the Dog. It was a stray before; small, nimble, free, with a glossy yellow coat. Now he stomps along side the Man, constrained by a leash. He’s bigger now – maybe it’s fat, maybe it’s muscles – and when he snarls (which he does a lot now), you see rows of razor-sharp teeth. So, the Man and the Dog stride down the street as you watch, and suddenly you see the Man say something to the Dog, and the Dog bites a passer by – later identified as the Man’s great rival in life – in the leg. Of course, this is the Dog’s fault, and the Man is ever so quick to point this out. How can it be his fault? The Dog was on a lead, what more could he do? The Dog is dangerous, and must be put down. As the Dog is dragged away, you see the victim lying on the floor. The cuts were deep, deeper than expected, and he was bleeding his life away on the pavement.
So. Who is to blame? The Dog who bit, or the Man who taught him to?