If you watch NCIS,
you know what I’m talking about. It’s that silent, unsmiling stare former United
States Marine Corps Scout Sniper, turned Special Agent for the Naval
Criminal Investigative Service, Gibbs, uses
when he is not pleased. I liken it to The
Mommy Look.
It’s not a look of condescendence or arrogance. But it is a look of total control and authority.
One that communicates extreme displeasure with words or deeds occurring, or
being contemplated. It evokes total confessions from hardened criminals and
insolent teens alike. It dissuades terrorists, hooligans, and other assorted
bad guys from continuing in their wicked ways. In fact, on NCIS it stopped an armed attack
on a women’s shelter. It’s a look that demands respect and corrective action,
usually resulting in questionable or undesirable activities coming to an instantaneous halt. When performed correctly, the
look is effective as a stand-alone—no words required. It’s a look of which most
thinking people do not like to be recipients.
Bandit gave Moggy that
look this past weekend.
It occurred during a quick trip to Houston to check on
elderly relatives. The weekend was one
of confinement to the close quarters of the car and hotel room. As you know, close
quarter confinement can induce fighting amongst even the most loving of
families. Our little traveling zoo, I mean family, was no exception.
The Boys actually did quite well for most of the weekend. They
respected each other’s personal space and played well together. They raced
against each other to fetch the raccoon when I tossed it. Bandit retrieved it
every time; however, because he had the competition of Moggy, he actually
played fetch for more than his normal 1-3 retrievals before settling down for a
good death shake and chew. Competition, it would seem, is the way to entice
Bandit to play a socially acceptable game of fetch for a fairly extensive
period of time—as opposed to his normal passive-aggressive game of, I’ll go
get it, if I feel like it, and stop just short of your reach—if I decide to return it at all. The time I spent in the presence of The Boys was
pleasant (i.e. no barring of teeth, growling, barking, pawing, or bloodshed).
And then the inevitable occurred—one trespassed on the others personal space.
As usual, the trespasser was Moggy.
I was impressed with Bandit’s restraint. He didn’t growl or
bare his teeth at Moggy. He didn’t strike out and paw him. He didn’t yank
anything away from Moggy—well except for the one time Moggy got a hold of the
tip of raccoons tail—but, in Bandit’s defense, the majority of the raccoon
was in his possession. Bandit didn’t sulk or pout. He didn’t hid or pee on anything of Moggy’s—except
for the tunnel—but that was my fault because I was taking my time before taking
Bandit outside—I became absorbed in writing an email at the time Bandit first
told me he needed to relieve himself. I didn’t want to lose my train of
thought, and I distractedly murmured “We’ll go outside in just a minute.” Bandit had been good all day while I visited the
relatives. When Moggy started playing Pawsie with Bandits paws, Bandit decided he had
had enough! And since he was fully
loaded, he pranced over to the tunnel and hiked his leg. I was able to call him
down before he soaked the tunnel—and I finished the email after we attended to Bandits facility-visiting needs. The next time
Moggy got on Bandit’s nerves, and he was tired of Moggy’s incessant kitten-ness,
Bandit could have become aggressive, or
even passive-aggressive, but he didn’t. He simply stood stock-still and starred
at Moggy. He gave Moggy The Look—and what a look it was! His stare down was worthy of any Mother, or even
Leroy Jethro Gibbs himself.
And it worked.
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