Dogsicle

In 1970 I had one of the worst jobs ever. I was an ice cream truck driver for three days. When I was a kid, the sound of the ice cream man's truck signaled happy times, but I managed to learn to hate that sound after three days of snotty brats calling me names, and handfuls of sticky pennies. Not to mention the repetitious ting a ling a ting a ling of that stupid music blaring from the loudspeaker. It all finally came to a halt when the decrepit van that they had given me, died in the middle of a suburban cul-de-sac. I left the key in it, walked to a pay phone, and told them where to find it. I assume that the children on that street enjoyed free ice cream until the tow truck showed up.

Chandler and I were going walkies late this afternoon, and halfway down the street he stopped, cocked his head, and raised his ears. Off in the far distance he was hearing the unmistakable music of an ice cream truck. Ting a ling a ling a ting. Each time the music cycled through and started again, Chandler would stop dead in his tracks and look around to see where that sound was coming from. As we walked on, the ice cream truck suddenly appeared at the end of the street. I felt a sharp tug on the leash, and I looked down at Chandler to see why. He was trembling, and his tail was wedged firmly between his legs. It turns out that my dog is terrified of ice cream trucks. As the jangling beast slowly moved towards us, Chandler bolted. I felt my arm being ripped out of it's socket, as he dragged me in the opposite direction. We made it home in record time, and Chandler ran into the house, directly to the security of my bedroom where he stayed until he was sure the offending ice cream truck hadn't followed us home. It's probably just as well, because if he hadn't dragged me home I definitely would have had a Creamsicle.