Murphy Tyson

by Joseph Greenleaf
Copyright 2005 Joseph Greenleaf

When I brought Murphy to Mississippi from Ireland, he only had been around Larry, his cat pal, and two chicken brothers, so, being greeted by a hundred pound boxer named Harley and Molly, the smokily moody black lab, was an eye opener. It didn't open Harley's eyes, as his two favourite things are eating and napping, but Molly thought, hmmmm, THIS is interesting....

Molly pointed out that her assignation with Harley was without benefit of clergy, and she subtly threw over Harley for the young Irishman. This didn't bother Harley, as there were no groceries involved. He and Murphy did cross swords over a snip of pepperoni, and I was the one most grievously wounded, but that was early-on.

We generally kept the two lads separated on walks and the like because Harley may spot what he thinks is a cheeseburger in the weeds and go a few rounds with Murphy over it.

Not knowing this, my friend Bruce took them both for a stroll the other day whilst I was off wasting money. As he neared the house, Harley decided either he was going to fight for Molly or he thought Murphy had a doughnut. Harley, being three times heavier than Murphy, presumed it would be easy going: the super heavyweight boxer versus the welterweight.

Murphy's an Ulsterman and a pub brawler in a former life, and Harley was attacked with a mouth full of white razorblades. Bruce tried to pull them apart and released Murphy's breakaway collar. This was not good.

I arrived back at the house as the CSI folks were leaving and the yellow Crime Scene tape was still wrapped around the house. It looked like the Manson Family had come for tea: there were bloody pawprints and splashes of blood on the floor, walls, door...you get the idea.

Harley's ear was chewed on, he had gashes on his head and various other places, and he was not feeling well. Murphy was ready for another round, and was unhurt.

I took Harley to the vet/groomer, and was not gratified to see that the vet had a new, 2005 Land Yacht, with the licence plate, THNKSJOE. I did appreciate my reserved parking space.

One of the Lady Wrestlers came out to open the door for me and lifted me off my feet in a hug that separated several ribs. She hadn't shaved that afternoon, so I got stubble-burn and pulled away, telling her how nice her tooth looked, with the gold 'J.' She thanked me.

The girls behind the counter looked great in their new fur coats, and they seemed pleased I had arrived. Harley received first aid and was scheduled for surgery. The vet said he'd have to lop off an inch or two of Harley's ear and generally run him through the sewing machine. This was $85 worth of Land Yacht fuel (about 30 feet of travel). Harley and I left, licking our wounds.

When I brought him in for surgery, the girls asked if I wanted his blood tested. I didn't think he had any left, but I agreed. Did I want an IV? I said I was feeling all right, just a little pale. No--for Harley. Sure, sure. Sign him up.

He came home yesterday, looking like a patchwork quilt, his ear at half-mast, mourning his lost dignity and heavyweight title. This was another $250. I glared at Murphy who was busy asking Harley, 'Are you looking at ME??'

My friend Bruce asked if I had ever considered castration. I told him it was a charming offer, but I didn't want to be in the Vienna Boys' Choir. 'No, MURPHY!' Hearing this, Murphy stopped flicking his switchblade and showed me the whites of his eyes. 'Nope. Murphy passes on it too,' says I.

Harley made his way to a pillow, thinking of the lost title and the lovely Molly, but consoling himself with thoughts of kibbled bits. 'I coulda been a contender,' he said, dozing off to dream of pizza.

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jgreenleaf @ o2.ie or jagreenleaf @ yahoo.com

Joseph Greenleaf is an Irish author and publisher. His books can be purchased at: http://www.swordpoint.com

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