“Walking Stick Mandate”

 

            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

                                                                                                           

             

                 

“Very Stress-mas!”

            In recent years, our Christmas celebrations honed down to a few items under the tree for each of us, and our traditional Eggs Benedict with mimosas brunch (I’ve perfected the timing for hollandaise sauce). We open simple gifts that hover between necessity and desire. The first year of the pandemic, we stayed home and stayed safe. With everyone vaccinated and boosted, this last Christmas meant my brother would journey to San Antonio once again. This four hour feat worried all of us since Charles’s 2005 Ford Focus’s 255,000 odometer ticked “doom, doom, doom” with every trip he took. Without my brother’s knowledge, we’d cleared some debt and planned on purchasing our own new car in the first months of 2022 with the idea of gifting him our own, six-year-old Focus.

            Naturally, even the best strategies snarl when serendipity saunters onto the scene. I’d forgotten to warn Charles of all of the new construction on the main highway heading to our house that required an earlier exit for him. Laughter tinged his voice when he called to say he’d missed the turn-off and was parked in the hospital’s lot. Although he’d ridden as a passenger many times over the years from the hospital to our house, he didn’t know the route and asked if I could swing by for him to follow me home. I apologized profusely once I pulled up next to his car because I’d forgotten to warn him about the road changes.

            He jumped into his car. I jumped into mine. Another vehicle needed to pass, and I pulled ahead in the lot, waiting for Charles to follow me. I waited. His car didn’t move. I waited. He got out of his car. I waited. He waved me back. His dilapidated car didn’t sigh, or clunk, or click when he tried to start it. I called David. The three of us puttered under the hood, jumped the battery (ran to get another one), but death gripped this ancient, worn-out beast. I watched Charles in amazement as he went around to the back passenger door, leaned across the back seat to open the back driver’s side door. He sped around the rear of the car, opened the back door wider, leaned into the front driver’s side, and popped that front door open. In dismay, I realized that the exterior handle of his driver’s door hung in pieces. We called our dealer, walking distance from the hospital, to see about a tow. No trucks available. No mechanics available to work on the car until after the first week of January. The dealer referred us to another shop and tow service. No one answered our any of the messages. Charles unloaded his bag and the gifts he had for us, and we abandoned the car for the night. If Charles hadn’t missed the exit, his car would’ve expired in front of our house. He wouldn’t have tried to start it until December 26^th. In a round-about way, missing the exit gave us more and different options.

Charles's Focus DOA

Charles's old Focus

Old and unsafe!

            In the mid-80s, we owned and fiercely loved a Bronco II. I danced in delight when Ford released information about their newest Bronco and Bronco Sport. Difficult to come by, I lurked on various dealer websites almost daily in hopes of finding a Bronco Sport to test drive. My original intension was to order one in early 2022. With Charles needing a car immediately, finding a Bronco Sport—the Big Bend edition because of the rough-and-tough interior mats, full-sized spare with the tow package, fog lights, and air conditioner control for the back passengers.

            Our son’s sweeping internet searches found two possibilities in a 50 mile radius from our house. He called to set up appointments with the two, far-flung dealerships for us to test drive during the afternoon of Christmas Eve.

            Christmas Eve morning found us entering our credit union as soon as the doors opened. They escorted us into a small room where we went through the process of applying for a car loan through a teller in Corpus Christi! Within 35 minutes, we walked out with a voucher that could cover purchasing the vehicle even if we didn’t do a trade-in or deposit. The original plan called for doing both, but we’d just scheduled to have our roof replaced and hadn’t confirmed the final amount. I didn’t want to dip into those funds if we found a Bronco Sport.

            Excited anticipation kicked into high gear the moment we saw the car on the lot. The test drive sold us. The sticker price rested perfectly within our budget. The sales person left to draw up initial paperwork. A glance at my phone confirmed that it wasn’t even noon. Then shock and anger hit when the dealer attempted to add $4,000 over the sticker price because this Bronco Sport was only one of two in San Antonio. My son, who was with us, took the paper from me, looked at it and handed it back as he told us to leave the dealership. My son’s business acumen shifted in high gear as he began negotiating a bottom line amount. The manager turned down his first counter-offer and came back with another one that my son rejected. Within minutes, it became apparent to the manager that we’d leave if they didn’t match the amount my son stipulated. More papers. More signatures. More waiting until we finally drove off with our new car! From the moment we entered our credit union until we drove from the dealership lot, only five hours had passed.

            Christmas Day, we opened gifts and fixed our traditional brunch. Charles took his “new” Focus for a spin and sat in amazed wonder. He has a car with doors that open and close, a windshield that’s not spider-webbed with cracks, a steering wheel that’s not disintegrating, and an engine that hums. He has a vehicle that’s safe and reliable. Our unexpected Christmas stress ended with triumph for all of us.

 

Charle's "new" Focus!

Our new Bronco Sport!

New Bronco Sport!

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman