Such an honour it was to be met on Rideau Street on that fine summer's day by my favorite chap of days gone by…
No day of summer leisure and debauchery is complete without gluttony and the abuse of cheap snacks, and thus we headed for a certain cheapo store of ill repute to fill up on rubbish stabilized with soya lecithin, 1L bottled juices with oil as one of the ingredients, and so on. With armloads of what might as well have been chicken entrails, we marched off for that vacationing-hotspot of the good n' lazy Ottawa hippy: Major's Hill Park.
After struggling up the endless stairs (which now pass by that ghastly American fortress), there we found ourselves on the hill and looking for a place on the crudely manicured, presumably pesticide-laden grass. The grass in this park was perhaps as the hair of a man who took to pulling out his hair in fits of rage and who also poked "aeration" holes in his scalp rather than comb his hair. Still, this is more appropriate for a lawn than a head of hair.
We walked about and finally found a suitable spot, maybe the same as any other, maybe not. Across the way, hippies calmly did hippy things and couples strutted down the cement paths on either side. The elderly sat on benches and tourists scuttled past, surely headed to the Art Galleries and War Museums over yonder. Nary a siren-capped NCC pickup truck was to be seen, and all was good and sunny.
In lazy freedom, we reclined ourselves on the sod and partook of junk food. The atmosphere was so loose and easy that hippies decided it was fair game to let their pooches off the hook. One after another, dog one and dog two and dog three ran free over the reclaimed parkspace, and felt liberated.
This wouldn't do for my poor tormented companion, tormented by the ghosts of dogs gone by, dogs who chase and make runs at, and who bark and bite. These memories came rushing back in an all-too-real series of flashbacks which I could see in my friend's eyes.
No such cruel hound was there on that day, to my estimation, but nonetheless the past leaves scars that don't easily heal, and, well, specters of such hounds prevailed. My friend was not pleased and had a crazed look as a dog (innocently?) ran towards us.
For some reason, I had shoved a head of garlic in my pocket as I left the house that morning. This was strange, because it predated my folie-d'ail by at least two years. Regardless, in a flash I shoved my hand into my pocket and out came the garlic, and I cast it in a direction away from us. The mutt passed us by (as my friend recoiled) and jumped and caught the garlic. The day was saved, and the dog trotted away, satisfied by a mouth-watering flavour renowned the world over as superior to that of human blood.
If certain myths about vampires are correct, then this proclaims the dog as having the purest of motives, and not a taste for the flesh of innocents.
Off the dog went, and with it, out troubles. With that crisis over and done with, we were free to take it easy once more. A noticeable wave of sunny happiness descended over the entire place and there I ate factory-made cookies and was content!