The other day I was driving behind a small SUV with the largest dog I’ve ever seen in my life happily seated in the way back. (You know the “way back” – the area on a non-sedan car that is the last row of seats or is simply a storage area that can’t quite be called a trunk. That area your parents might or might not have spread a blanket down on top of suitcases, and where you may or may not have napped on 6-hour vacation car trips, exhausted from reading Sideways Stories from Wayside School (There is no Miss Zarves! There is no 19th floor!) over a walkie talkie that was radioing to the driver and shotgun rider. That “way back.”). (And while I’m at it, if anyone can weigh in on the proper order of ” ” and ( ) and . and capitals in a run-on sentence, please save me from grammatical purgatory).
This dog was of epic proportions, bigger than the striped Great Dane (“Tiger”) that roamed freely around our 1995 neighborhood and would patiently endure our attempts to straddle and ride him like a pony before sauntering off to swallow cats, raccoons, other dogs, whole.
This dog was about as big as the kids in The Sandlot imagine James Earl Jones’ dog behind the fence to be. I would know, because the couple two floors below us in our apartment building have a dog just like it, but even their dog isn’t as big as this one.
Was that anticlimactic? Wish the picture did the size of this dog justice. I will say that I didn’t take this while driving, unless idling at a red light that had just turned green counts as “driving.” Also, we need to dust our dash.