I’m Beginning to Hate Dogs …

… and their owners. At least the irresponsible and inconsiderate ones.

I’ve had a long day at the office with a lot of frustration and insanity. I was at work from 0800 to 1630 (with no lunch, but that’s another story), and then from 1900 to 2315. I’m tired. It’s cold. It’s dark. I’m finally pulling into my driveway, and all I want is to get inside to the warmth and my penguin PJs and a nice hot cup of jasmine pearl tea.

So I did not appreciate being attacked in my own yard by a big dog when I got out of my car. The dog is sand-coloured, so I didn’t even see him at first. I heard something rustling about in the yard and looked behind me to see what it was.  (I have a thing about being sneaked up on from behind.) And then this big dog is charging at me, barking and howling.

I think I’m going to start carrying my Bo with me to and from the car. Every day. At least then I could protect myself. My purse isn’t much protection, though my kids say it’s heavy as a brick.

So anyway, I holler at the dog to go away, in my deep, authoritative voice. And I fling out my arms and stomp at it. But who am I kidding? I’m a girl, and they don’t make girl’s voices to be scary and intimidating. My own kids aren’t fazed by my “deep, authoritative voice.” And girls aren’t scary when they try to seem big and frightening. They are funny. Fat girls who look like beach balls on stilts are really funny when they try to be intimidating.

So I’m thinking, Just get inside. You look stupid. And you aren’t scaring anybody. Least of all the dog. Which has now reared up on its hind legs and is howling and gnashing its teeth while lunging toward me. I’m wondering if the big bag holding my 36-CD Christmas music collection (all in  jewel cases) is sturdy enough to swing. I’m pretty sure the cases in their plexiglass holder are heavy and hard enough to knock the dog out, assuming I can aim my swing well enough to make contact with its head.

And its owner, two doors north of me, is saying, “He won’t hurt you; just yell at him and he’ll go.” I’m thinking, Lady, whaddaya mean, ‘he won’t hurt you’?! He’s as tall as me when he rears up like that, and he’s got teeth longer than my fingers! And what part of ‘Hey, get out of here; you don’t belong here! Go home!’ did you not recognize as ‘shouting’?

Since I can hear “go home” echoing off the school half a block up the street, and the across-the-street neighbour’s lights came on, I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine that I was shouting. (My sensei would be proud. I yelled. Loud enough to echo. And wake the neighbours.)

So, anyhow, I sidle past the snarling beast, stomping like a clog-dancer and hollering my head off. I manage to get into my house. And I lock myself in and debate whether I should call the cops. I decide I’m not up to law enforcement encounters. I’m tired; I’m grumpy, and I just want a cup of hot tea and my penguin PJs. And my pillow.

So I’m pouring up the tea when I hear a knock at the door. I can’t pretend I’m not home, because the whole neighbourhood heard my arrival. In stereo, thanks to the school’s echo effect. Come to think of it, a good proportion of them probably saw it, too. Great. The whole neighbourhood saw me clogging my way up the front walk, yelling like a banshee. Now they’ll know I’m insane.

So I find my keys, open the inside door, and slide up the window in the security door. The neighbour who owns the dog says she’s come to tell me she’s sorry for the way her dog acted.

I say, “All right. But really, he’s not supposed to be running loose. There is a leash law, you know.”

She says, “I know, but he keeps getting out the front door and I’ve been trying to catch him…” She’s waving a size 48 leather belt and I’m thinking, That’s your leash? And when I saw you, you were sitting on your front porch in your big chair. How were you gonna catch him from there? Do you have telekinetic abilities? And doesn’t your front door have a lock? Even my kids can’t open the door if it’s locked—well, not without the key. And I don’t think dogs can do the whole key thing.

But she’s still talking. “He’s only a puppy, you know. I mean, I’m sorry he acted like that but, you know, he won’t hurt you, he’s only a puppy. Just growl real loud and he will run away.”

Well, that tore it. I said, “I’ve been bitten by three dogs whose owners said ‘my dog never bit anyone; he’s so gentle.’ So I’m not buying it that your dog, who was trespassing on my property and who was barking, jumping, and snarling at me with his fangs fully visible, I’m not buying that this is a harmless little puppy. Sorry. He needs to be on a leash. I hope you catch him.”

I’m thinking  Tell it to my scars, lady. There is no way am I going to growl at a dog. Past experience tells me that doing so would be a great way to get my face ripped off. And I like my face. It’s not much to look at, but it’s mine, and I’m used to it. I would like to keep it. (I’m also wondering why I seem to be an irresistible snack to the “gentle and harmless” segment of the canine population.)

I kind of feel bad about the way it ended, because she just kind of meandered off my porch, and I shut and locked the door again. But then, I’m thinking, why do I feel bad? I’m not the one letting a dangerous animal roam the streets at night, trespassing on other people’s property, tearing up the grass, and, doubtless, pooping in their yards. Not to mention attacking people for no good reason.  I’m not the one breaking the law here.

For the record, I don’t really hate dogs. I’m scared of them. Terrified, actually. (And with good reason.)  But I don’t hate them. They are animals.  It’s their people’s responsibility to make them behave and stay in their own yard and not be a nuisance or a danger to the others around them. I just wish my dog-owning neighbours understood that simple truth.

Tags: dogs, Family Life, fear, humour, pet-owners, pets, rant, scars, True Stories