Our
cooler mornings translate into the luxury of a later morning walk on the
weekends. That also means more people populate our popular city park than at my
usual 8:30 AM trek. This Sunday, I stuck to my sidewalk route while my husband,
with his faster pace and longer stride, opted to take a broader loop through
the park. As I approached the corner of the park, I knew his steps had him
about ten feet behind me. I wasn’t worried when two large, brown and white dogs
swirled around a black pick-up truck that was stopped up ahead and to my
left. At first, I thought the dogs belonged to the truck and had jumped from its
bed, but it took me only a few seconds more to realize the man by the tuck was
keeping them away from his cab where he’d placed his own dog for safety. Next
to me, an SUV halted as the two dogs dashed from pouncing against the pick-up
into the path of that car.
In
a heartbeat, the pair turned their attention to me, where I froze next to the
SUV in hopes that they wouldn’t go around the car to get to me. That didn’t
happen. In a vicious, snarling team, they encircled me with one of them
snapping for my right hand, which I pulled away even as it connected with my
finger.
“Call
911!” I screamed. “They are biting me! Call 911!” A quick check let me know
there wasn’t broken skin. The man at the pick-up truck waved his hands in the
air. I felt my husband running up from behind me while I still yelled for
someone to call for help.
At
that point, a little girl ran crying over and over again, “Don’t call 911!” She threw
herself onto the ground sobbing the dogs’ names, but they ignored her as they
ran circles around the intersection, their orange neon leashes whipping behind
them. Some man, perhaps the girl’s father or grandfather, came out and began
yelling at the girl and made absolutely no effort to gain control of the dogs. Then, their tandem hunting brought them back
to me where I knew they intended to strike me again.
I
grew as large as I could, threw my arms into the air to look more menacing, pitched
my voice into a massively low growl, and commanded, “Go home! Go home! GO HOME!”
I
don’t know if I scared them, but by that time, my husband’s approach made us a
two-on-two wall. The dogs disengaged from me, headed again toward the pick-up
truck where that man waved his arms to force them into their own yard. As
quickly as they appeared, they vanished behind closed doors.
Trembling,
I stood on the corner across the street and a few doors down from the house
that the dogs went into. I waited for someone to come out to check on my wellbeing,
and when no one did, I took down the house’s address. One corner of my mind, aware
that many people shoot first, now in Texas, I stayed on the other side of the
street with no intention of stepping on their property. As I noted the address
into my phone, a witness came up to tell me that her husband had been bitten by
those dogs last week. She begged me to file a report against them, which I did
as soon as I walked home.
I
walked yesterday to Live Oak’s Animal Care and Control to follow-up on the
incident. The address was in their files because an Australian Shepherd, with “the
old soul of a wanderer” gets out occasionally and his owners have been cited
for him straying. The attacking dogs were brown and white, short haired,
hunting type dogs, with no resemblance to the dogs on record. An investigation
started yesterday, and I know that the “control” part of our city ordinances
will kick into hyper-drive.
In
the meantime, I’ve received instructions to carry a walking stick, something I
never thought I’d need, along with me from now on.
 |
| Heading out for today's walk! |
Coipyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
No comments:
Post a Comment