For my friends who love dogs, this post is probably not for you. Don't worry, I will not be extolling the virtues of cats, if there is such a thing, but I will be exploring my tumultuous relationship with dogs. I grew up on a farm so I am no stranger to animals. My neurosis made sure I never fully bonded with most of the animals in my world, but, hands down, dogs were the most feared. The barking-sniffing-nuzzling-jumping-growling thing dogs do when they "greet" others is terrifying to me. I never know where to put my hands because dogs usually have this neediness to be petted or scratched or I-don't-know-what as they command my attention. They like to get into my personal space bubble very quickly and I am forced to call for help from someone who speaks dog.
Big or small or bows-in-the-fur or anything in between, most canines strike fear within my being. There was the dog (let's call him Beelzebub) who lived down the road a piece from my childhood home. He insisted on laying in wait as I pedaled my bicycle to visit my friend. I would get off my bike as I approached the farm where Beelzebub resided so I would make less noise on the crunchy gravel. I am sure Beelzebub had a bicycle radar set up in his doghouse because he never failed to come out snarling and ready for a chase. I would hop back on my bike and pedal with all the speed of someone filled with gallons of adrenaline. My sister is a dog whisperer so I often took her along in an attempt to save myself from Beelzebub. Thanks, sis!
There was the extremely crabby and large dog (let's call him Lucifer) who lived in the same small town where I lived when I was first married. On Sunday afternoons, I often rode my bike around town, sometimes with my young daughter buckled into the kiddie seat behind me. I usually avoided the block where Lucifer reigned, but one afternoon I decided to take a chance. I was alone this time and I noticed Lucifer was chained up in his owner's back yard. I held my breath and as quietly and quickly as possible sailed by Lucifer, hoping not to be noticed. No such luck. Lucifer raised his mangy head and glared at me. I assumed the heavy chain leash would keep him tethered. Not so. He ripped the stake out and barreled after me. His pathogen laden mouth clamped down on my leg and I rode at least a half block with him attached to me like a furry tumor. I am not sure how or why he finally released his grip, but I finally made it home. I reported the beastly incident to our small town cop and eventually Lucifer was no longer around. Apparently, I wasn't the only leg he tasted.
Over the years I learned techniques that help me cope, such as freezing and closing my eyes or making sure a dog translator is with me if I know a dog is likely to be present at my destination. I have also met a few dogs who respect my space. Charlie, the golden retriever who owns my daughter and son-in-law, is patiently attempting to teach me dog speak. Donner, the gentle German shepherd who was the sentinel at our favorite vacation destination, taught me not to judge a dog book by its cover.
Nevertheless, I am still a puddle of ineptness when I meet a strange dog. Last week, my mother was escorting me to the door of her assisted living home when a woman entered the building. She was clutching a leash with a small, dachshund-like dog tugging on the other end. I was trapped with the dog between me and the building's exit. I froze and hoped the dog would just trot along his merry way. Of course, he had to veer off course and head for my ankles with much sniffing and posturing. The owner gave the leash a little tug and I was saved. My mother suddenly broke out into a fit of giggles and said, "They just never leave you alone, do they?"
I guess dogs can bring a little joy, once in awhile.
