Spurned by Dog

[Vung Tau, 4/2/25]

That BMW I mentioned belongs to a woman who runs a “HAIR AND NAIL BEAUTY SALON.” How does this small business generate so much cash? It turns out she’s also an unlicensed pawn broker. A year and a half ago, the owner of these uppity wheels had to settle debts with xã hội đen, black society. Those in the underworld are also called buffalo heads, horse faces. You can’t mess with them. When my father’s truck was torched in Santa Clara, I immediately thought of these beast mugged gentlemen. Like so many Viets, he and the ex owner of the BMW had a gambling problem. One of the last things he said to me face to face was, “I was very stupid.” On his hospital bed, this obsessive bettor on NFL games chuckled.

Innocently, I say to Jason, “It appears she doesn’t dare to drive this expensive car around!”

“What are you talking about?! She drives it all the time.”

“I’m applying our psychology to her,” I must admit.

No longer yelled at, Lucky is ignoring me again. He’s very human that way. Freaking out with happiness, he stands on Jason’s motorbike as it’s driven towards that park by Front Beach. Coquettish bitches can’t wait for that repetitive action. It hasn’t gotten old, somehow. Before long, Lucky will be most joyously stuck, if only for a nano blink. Everything is like that, crunchy grasshoppers begging to be stepped on. It’s not even happening! There’s always tomorrow, he thinks. Philosophical, I stare at Lucky’s inconstant if not traitorous asshole as it zooms away. There are worse moonings.

“How did you get Lucky?”

“From my sister. Her dog had a litter.”

“Does Lucky know his mom?”

“Sure, she comes by. He doesn’t like her.”

“He remembers. Dogs forget nothing!”