The Big Head Diaries, Volume 1: Stories of a Yellow Lab from Down Under

By Ryan Chin

Big Head is like most dogs living in rural New Zealand. He chases wild goats, scrounges bloody meals, and aspires to be a pig hunter. Life is sweet as, but his addiction to chasing sheep lands him in trouble, and he finds himself clipped to the end of a short chain. Luckily for him, he’s given plenty of lab kisses to Mr. Chin, an overseas

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sol Chin Media Group LLC
• Release date: Apr 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9780983607335

Ryan Chin

Ryan meanders in Portland, Oregon, and beyond. He's a daddy, home inspector, writer, fly fisher, and a surfer - mostly in that order.

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cover.jpgThe Big Head Diaries, Volume 1, by Ryan Chin

The Big Head Diaries, Volume 1

SolChin Media Group, Portland, OR

www.ryanchinauthor.com

© 2018 by Ryan Chin

All rights reserved. Published by SolChin Media Group. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Editing and design by Indigo: Editing, Design, and More

Cover by Brett Neiman

ISBN: 978-0-9836073-3-5

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Author’s Note

Sweet as Lab

Lovely Hands

New Guy in Town

Blood

Beyond

Mr. Chin

Pet Dog

Power

Nice Legs

BaaaBurgers

Tied Up

The Howling

Isolation

Swine Dreamin’

Happy Barf

Time to Think

What the Hell Is That?

The Cat

You Can’t Have My Liver, Mate

Problems, I Have Problems

Return of the Steak

Country Boys

Dad

Hangaroa Trip

Exorcism

Everything Is Better with Gravy

Shocked

Getting Soft

Grooving

Beach Night

The Kill

Short but Fun

Good Morning

Fishing with Tim

Everybody on the Bed

Connection

Meat Bananas

Coming to America!

A Note from Ryan

Acknowledgments

About Ryan Chin

Prologue

I follow Dad down the stairs and build speed across the lawn. He opens the truck’s door, and I eye the opening, calculate my trajectory, and leave the ground. Even with the running start, my rear lags, the thousands of previous leaps and bounds taking their toll. On cue, Dad is there with a perfectly timed shove on my furry ass, and I’m into my copilot seat ready for another fishing trip. Surrounded by a cloud of cream fur, I hack like an old man needing another puff from his inhaler, and rest my chin on the hair-caked armrest.

It’s embarrassing needing that nudge into the truck, but my snout is white, and that damn mole on my cheek grows bigger every day. Some would say these are my golden years, but that’s bullshit because all my years are golden.

In my first golden year, I ate wild goat, buckets of lamb hearts, and beef livers. I didn’t visit dog parks or go for leashed runs. I charged in one direction for miles—curling over horizons, stopping to lick my goods, and having deep thoughts on where I should piss. I figured I’d score with the local ladies and mark the same fence posts all my life—and I probably would have if I hadn’t met Dad.

Actually, I take that back. I’d be decaying bone fragments if I hadn’t met him, because I had a problem that first year. I chased sheep with intent to kill. In New Zealand, the place of my first golden year, chasing sheep is a capital crime punishable by gunshot. Finding Dad saved me and gave me the chance to run on both sides of the equator.

I’ve killed sheep in New Zealand, pinned down calves in California, and terrorized elk in Oregon. Dad and I have forded rivers in New Zealand, California, Oregon, Washington, and Canada. We’re into our twelfth year together now—all golden.

I’ve led him through marriage, the funny thing humans do where they agree on nothing but still create beauty. And in the past six years, I’ve nuzzled and guided him through the challenges of fatherhood. He has his ups and downs like everyone else; however, I think it’s a bit more with him being a writer. Putting yourself out there in any form of creative expression isn’t easy.

Many hours have been spent listening to the sound of Dad’s fingers on a keyboard, his toes massaging the muscles between my shoulder blades. All that tapping and the smile on his face at his book launch made me think it might be fun to stop lounging around as a foot warmer and share my story, tell it from Big Head’s point of view.

So as we New Zealanders like to say, I’m giving it a go, mate!

My name is Big Head, I’m a yellow Lab, and this is my story.

I picked this picture because I look old and wise—you know, like a writer…

Author’s Note

I know what you’re thinking: How can a dog read, write, and speak with such eloquence? I wish it was as easy as saying I mutated after a lightning strike or that I accidentally wandered onto a nuclear testing site. It’d be simple if I could just reminisce about the day I ate alphabet soup like Martha the talking dog, but in my case there are no answers—there’s just a good story.

You hear accounts of children born with detailed memories from a past life. Maybe I’m one of those stories. Perhaps my heightened conscience is like how select humans can recite infinite numbers of pi for hours, and how certain humans learn new languages in a day, and how toddlers can pick up a musical instrument and jam with no prior experience. I’m not touting myself as a genius; it’s just—not all Labs are created equal.

I understand that humans question everything. That giant frontal lobe is prone to doubt. Doubt in others and—most damaging—doubt in yourselves. Part of our jobs as dogs is to help you believe, to inspire a run to the horizon without looking back. And we are here to lighten shit up.

Give yourself a break from worrying about your job, money, and when you are going to return that thing you didn’t need to buy in the first place. Stop reading about world hunger, the refugee crisis, global warming, deforestation, Fifty Shades of Grey, and species on the edge of extinction.

And damn.

Stop questioning how a yellow Lab named Big Head knows so much.

Sweet as Lab

New Zealand

My eyes peel open for the first time. I see light and blurry movement but can’t quite make out the nipple I’ve suckled for days. Whimpers surround me. I paw my way to a new position and latch on. My brothers and sisters ram their snouts at me, but I don’t budge. Many dogs would say the milk is sweet, but since I’m in New Zealand, the milk isn’t just sweet—it’s sweet as, mate ! Whimpers stop. I can hear Mother’s heartbeat.

Our stomachs full, my siblings and I burrow into each other until we lose track of whose rear is whose—a maelstrom of yellow Lab. We snore away, and our drool becomes one.

Lovely Hands

My bro grinds into me. I stay latched to the prime nipple.