So I'm walking the dog last night ...

Did I mention I'm dog-sitting Chloe, my daughter's puggle?  Well, I am.

So I'm walking the dog last night and there's a kind of an out of the way lot of grass that she loves to take a dump in.  So we're walking in the lot of grass and I see an animal I can't quite recognize.  At first I think it's a cat, but it's too small and strangely whispy.  Then the dog sees it and tears after it.  At the same time, the animal, which upon closer examination is a skunk, sees us and assumes the position.

Me?  Lightening reflexes save the day.  I reel Chloe in and drag her away, praying that a skunk has less range than, say, a spitting cobra.  Which, apparently, it does.  Or doesn't.  I'm not sure which is correct.

I'm not sure exactly what "assumes the position" means.
It turns around, lifts it tail and prepares to do something nasty.
Which would be twerking?
Really?  You're going there?
Why not?  It's all the rage.
As the world we know slowly settles into the shitter, I'd hoped that the word twerking would never appear on these pages.  That I could draw a line in the sand vis-a-vis common decency.  Now you've ruined that.
Bummer.

The final outcome is that nobody got skunk spray all over themselves.  And I just googled spitting cobras and they can spit about six feet.  I'd thought it was further.  Or farther.  I'm not sure which is correct.

And besides, this isn't about some stupid skunk.  This is about Gus, the neurotic polar bear in the Central Park Zoo.  Who, after 27 years of highly public neurosis (a perfect New Yorker, this bear), kicked the bucket yesterday.

This is Gus, as he might have been rendered by Rodin ...

If Rodin worked in white.

Adios, campagnolo.