Dog Run

My fear of dogs goes way back. I blame Mutt Mutt. Or, rather, Mutt Mutt’s owner.

My great grandmother (absolutely *mother* not *ma*) loved her decidedly mangy version of Benji. The yappy beige dog clicked his nails all around the wood and cement floors of Grandmother Lottie’s old house. Mutt Mutt wasn’t particularly friendly to anyone other than Grandmother, least of all me.

When we would visit (which seemed very often), Mutt Mutt would bark at me and chase me and try to nip at me. He was a small dog and I was a small 8 year old. Apparently Mutt Mutt was simply trying to play with me. Grandmother thought my terror was very amusing. I hated that dog but I hated the laughter and lack of protection more.

And so I don’t like dogs much. Wasn’t much of a fan of Grandmother either.

Years later, my Dog Phobia took on a new dimension when Rob and I were walking on a trail along the ocean. I was grateful to be outside on a scenic leisurely walk after being cooped up in the house for so many months following my first back surgery.

I was rather tentative but feeling sturdy in my clamshell back brace that doubled as enormous plastic corset. No bra for months! Is that more than you needed to know?

Suddenly, a large dog of the Doberman variety started running towards us. Dogs were supposed to be on a leash but this one had no human attached to it. Terrified, I froze. Rob tried to intervene and managed to get the dog to slow down but he wasn’t able to prevent the dog from jumping up on me, muddy front paws on my shoulders, dog breath and spittle and teeth in my face.

The owner came running over and apologized. I think I waited until she was gone before I burst into fear-filled tears while trying to wipe the mud off my sweater. If I hadn’t been wearing my brace, my unforeseen second back surgery would have happened a lot sooner.

And so, yeah, I reaaaally don’t like dogs much. Particularly the untrained, unleashed type.

I have determined that I can handle tiny dogs (think slipper sized) and old, arthritic, drooling dogs. The little ones I can flick away. The old ones move slower than I do so I can out maneuver them. But any other size or age of dog and you can usually find me casually cowering behind Rob.

Except when I am by myself. Like on my very therapeutic and greedily guarded walks alone.

My walks heal me. They help my back feel better and they restore my spirit. I often find God on my walks, whether in music or scenery or thoughts. My walks by myself are a somewhat sacred time for me.

Recently, because of a knee issue that will hopefully be fixed soon, I have been doing my easiest walk: our neighborhood. Two mostly flat laps on a nicely paved road lined by trees and a creek and neighbors who wave.

Last week, though, someone insisted on joining me. Toby. A neighbor’s free range and largely untrained dog. I hadn’t seen him in a long time so I had sort of assumed…with a guilty tinge of hope…that his wild ways had finally caught up with him.

You see, Toby is black lab mix who doesn’t wear a reflective collar. He LOVES to chase and attack cars on our private road. I have lost track how many times I have slammed on brakes or swerved or honked out of deference to Toby.

But a few days ago, there Toby was again. And with amazing energy and agility, that large 10-year-old black damp dog was charging me and trying to jump on me.

Prickly with fear, I yelled NO and DOWN and GO HOME with increasing desperation. I did all sorts of ill-advised pirouettes to avoid Toby literally getting in my face. My good knee wriggled a tiny bit. Thank God I was wearing my knee brace on the bad one.

Determined not to have my walk hijacked by a dog, I continued on my path. Infuriatingly, my second lap was pretty much a repeat of yelling and dancing with Toby. Adamant and defiant, I marched up to the neighbor’s house and knocked loudly on the door. Nobody answered. I cried all the way home.

Today, armed with a more confident Alpha Dog voice and posture, I tried my walk again. About half way to Toby’s house, he appeared in the street and then trotted back to his house. Hoping maybe his owner had called him back home, I optimistically continued towards his house. And then…there he was again, charging down the street at me at startling speed.

I did my most convincing yelling and pointing. Although Toby didn’t put a paw on me, he sure wanted to. I looked at him and boomed (mostly to me), “THAT’S IT!”

I marched up to the house again and again knocked with purpose. This time someone answered.

I vaguely remember meeting Marla when she was in high school. She is now a nurse of some sort (judging from her scrubs) and has a young daughter (judging from her clingy leg accessory). Marla and I had never really chatted much before today.

I am proud to say I was polite and friendly and non-accusatory. At least outwardly. We had a very pleasant conversation and I learned that “SIT” sometimes works on Toby. Marla demonstrated and Toby complied…and then didn’t…proving Marla right.

Wondering about Toby’s unnatural energy, I asked with that same tinge of guilty hope how old he is.

“Oh, he’s about a year and a half, I think.”

I stared at her dumbfounded, recalling the decade of screeching tires and that time about 8 years ago when I bought one of those ultrasonic dog deterrent remote control thingys only to have Toby be mesmerized by it and follow me and the noise all the way home to our garage.

A few more questions and it was revealed that Marla’s family has had several black dogs over the years. All looking about the same. All similarly managed and trained. All named Toby.

The guilty balloon of hope popped.

I then asked about the possibility of one of those invisible fence things that all the other neighbors have for their dogs. Nope. And seemingly no plans for one. Fantastic.

“Do you let him out at any specific time?” I asked hopefully. “I have been walking along here quite a bit recently and I hadn’t seen him until last week.” Maybe if she saw how cooperative I was willing to be, Marla would keep her scary dog in the house or contained in the yard more often.

“Well, we have been trying to let him out more because some neighbors,” Marla’s hand waved in a general direction over there, “complained that we were leaving him on the chain too long.”

And in that moment, my anger and offense and they-better-do-something-about-this-and-now attitude soften. In their place were unexpected sympathy and perspective and new understanding. Suddenly a bright light was shining on Marla’s struggle instead of my own.

“You just can’t win either way, huh?”

Marla gave me a weary smile saturated with relief while she shook her head.

We chatted a little more, we shook hands, and parted as friendly neighbors. Before I got to the next house, I got to practice my “SIT” command on Toby. It worked beautifully until I complimented him by saying “Good dog.” He was so excited by the praise, he tried to hug me.

I am still nervous and I still fear Toby’s exuberance might harm me. I now have another ultrasonic dog deterrent thingy on its way from Amazon. (I threw the other one away not realizing I had a revolving door of other Tobys it might work on.)

But now, instead of being indignant that I can’t even walk in my own neighborhood without fear of a damn dog… and instead of being filled with righteous anger that the neighbors really need to better train and care for their pets… and instead of letting fear consume and paralyze me… I am now more at peace with the idea of figuring out how Toby and I might co-exist without fear or yelling or jumping or dancing.

Like I said, I often find God on my walks.