Mad Dog

On a pleasant summer morning several years ago, I donned my running shoes to get in some hill training, an exercise that would soon have my body begging for the great draughts of oxygen it so desperately needed. The undulating topography of my rural country course was well suited for my endeavor as both significant and gentle swells eventually reverted to stretches of level road in an idyllic environment of verdant flora and happy, scampering fauna…but for a singular four-legged exception that I was to become intimately acquainted with momentarily.

After jogging about twenty five minutes, a steep hill presented itself to me, taunting me to maintain my constant pace. For an agonizing four minutes a battle with Mother Nature ensued, she seemingly increasing the length and grade of the hill; me refusing to quit, steadfast in my resolve to beat this enemy. I knew if I could just make it to the top of this hill I would be presented with a level road where the remainder of my run could be negotiated on a relatively even keel.

Straining, I somehow found an inner reserve, some fabric that a writer might perhaps address as the “stuff” that makes a human, well, human. Lungs burning in agony, I finally burst upon the summit of the hill and immediately stopped running, unable to go any further; my chest was heaving and I was doubled over with hands resting on knees. When my labored breathing slowed slightly, I looked up and there, planted in the center of the road was a huge, mud-encrusted, panting hulk of a dog, head slung low and looking me straight in the eye. The long silvery entrails of saliva dripping toward the ground from its jowls let me know this was no friendly dog merely out for a walk; the snarl and resulting bared teeth was the empirical evidence letting me know I was in deep trouble.

Dressed in light running attire, I was dreadfully ill prepared, having brought the proverbial knife to a gunfight. When I took a small step backward to create some distance between me and the dog, its displeasure in my action was quite apparent, as the snarl on its face seemed to grow another inch or two as it, in turn, took another step toward me. To make matters worse, I noticed that the dog was getting into a crouching position, undoubtedly preparing to spring at me.

My mind quickly shifted into the primal fight or flight mode, presenting me the options to either battle this formidable opponent or run the hell away. So when the dog leaped at me, I had just moved out of the path of its charge as I had decided on the flight option. The loud snap of its jaws in its failed attempt to bite into the back of my legs unnerved me so much that I lost my stride, stumbled and fell. On my hands and knees, I turned and saw that a long string of slobber was now wrapped around the animal’s snout and that it was panting heavily, apparently enraged it had failed to disable its prey. Its growl was barely perceptible, a truly menacing development; its huge teeth gleamed like scimitars; its fetid breath nauseated me as I scrambled back to my feet.

As I stood, eyes locked on my nemesis, my hand felt and then closed around a large rock. I grasped it firmly; I now had a weapon, albeit primitive at best. Circling to my right I raised my arm; the dog also circled to its right and mimicked my movement, the two of us engaged in our very own dance macabre. Then, it quickly assumed its crouching position, paws digging in for traction, its huge head level with the ground, and I knew it wouldn’t miscalculate its lunge this time. Just as it reared its hindquarters for its charge, I screamed “NO!” as loudly as I could, my arm ready to release the rock.

To this day I believe the mere authoritative “no” I yelled somehow shocked the crazed animal back to the realization that I represented Man, the species that fed it when it was hungry, that had befriended it and its kind since time immemorial, the species that ruled the world and held all other life forms subservient to it. The dog hesitated, raised itself from its “attack” position and although it continued to growl, I knew the battle was over. I carefully made my way around the animal, and once out of the range of its teeth sprinted away, all vestiges of my former fatigue now a mere memory.

As I finish writing this encounter years later, my own dogs rest at my feet, domesticated and well-fed, content with their environment and master. They sleep, but at the slightest scrape of my chair’s leg on the floor they collectively spring to their feet, immediately attentive and ready to accompany me out to the yard. Once there, we play, we frolic, we romp. Man’s best friend is well named, at least for the moment...