[ my dog tried to kill me ]

Her name is Sparky. She’s part chihuahua, part Jack Russell terrier. You’d think, with that combination, she’d be a yippy, hyperactive pain in the neck. Quite the opposite. This dog is nine pounds of Greta Garbo — aloof, composed, self-possessed, and coolheaded. She does not fluster. I do, I fluster all the time. Let me give you an example.

In clement months, our morning walks are peaceful rambles that cover a mile or four. We’ve racked up hundreds of miles so far. It’s what we do. She likes to smell things, I like to absorb sunshine. It works out for both of us. Did you know you shouldn’t pull a dog away mid-sniff? Smells are like books to them. Let them finish reading.

So that’s what we were doing on an especially pretty morning last week; sniffing and basking as we waited for a traffic light to change. Our tranquility was shattered by what sounded like hoofbeats. I looked to my left and saw a clone of Clifford, the Big Red Dog (in a brownish color scheme), trailing a leash and hurtling toward us like a runaway train. He was thirty yards away and closing fast. I could only whisper, ’oh, shit.’ 

I looked down at Sparky, happily communing with bird doo, scooped her up, stuffed her under my arm football-style, planted my feet, and prepared for a grisly end. Off in the distance, a short, perfectly square guy flapped his arms in helpless distress and screamed ‘stop!’ The stampeding dog did no such thing. He launched himself at me. I staggered backward on impact, defaulted to Weeble mode — remember Weeble’s? They wobble, but don’t fall down — and found myself eye to eye with 80 pounds of hot, panting, insistent exuberance. 

This dog was all hopped up on freedom and curiosity and wanted to play, so he clonked Sparky with a paw. Sparky took umbrage, lowered her ears, and growled. Not a teeth-baring, jaw-snapping growl, but a low, chesty growl.

The kind of growl that said, ‘Keep your stinking paws to yourself, but feel free to kill my person.’

I tried not to panic. After all, Cliff seemed satisfied whipping my legs with his tail, jostling, and jumping. He was only a threat to my balance. 

When the owner finally showed up, he was sweaty, limping, out of breath, and didn’t bother to introduce himself. He went straight to work grabbing at air and chasing his dog in circles around me. I felt like a maypole. It made for an entertaining spectacle, I’m sure. The only thing missing was the Benny Hill music. 

Now, folks, I’m trying to retire from my career as a public spectacle, so I’m asking the walkers of big dogs for help: please train your dogs to walk on a leash. Or, at the very least, pay attention and be prepared to control them if they’re prone to bolt. The world is full of temptation: squirrels, bunnies, bicycles, mailmen, me, and my little dog, too. Please, don’t hurt us. Or force us to cause a scene. Thank you.

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