Dogs are a very serious threat. This short essay is about my most harrowing dog experience while running:
Dog Days: The Pack
Mom and I are on a dirt road three miles west of the city. She's on her bike, and I'm running beside her. The morning sky is a soft baby blue, and the sun hasn’t yet cleared the eastern mountains. The air smells of alfalfa and spearmint. Songbirds sing merrily. There are no houses, cars or people in sight.
Suddenly, the serenity is broken. Beyond the barbed wire fence and across the fields comes a sound that strikes primordial fear into the hearts of runners: dogs in pursuit, their predatory barks drawing nearer. Through the tall grass and the cat tails, I catch brief, bobbing glimpses of dog heads rushing toward us.
We pick up the pace, hoping we'll be far enough away when the dogs come out of the grass at the edge of the road. Maybe they'll just bark at us from a distance and then go back to whatever they were doing.
No such luck. Four dogs break out of the field fifty yards behind us, and they don't hesitate. Here they come, all big: two shepherd-mixes in front, with a brown-and-white bird dog mix and a black mongrel close behind. Their coats are dirty and matted, their legs and feet muddy. Saliva dripping, they come barreling down the dirt road after us.
I don't know what to do. I can handle one dog, but this is a pack. Then suddenly my instincts take over. Quickly, I bend down and pick up two handfuls of gravel from the side of the road. As the two lead dogs draw near, I let loose a spray of gravel in their faces, yelling at the top of my lungs, "Get out of here! Get out of here, you stupid mutts! GET OUT OF HERE!" One of the dogs yelps when the small stones hit it in the face, and the two leaders stop in their tracks, squinting, snarling, and letting out little grunts, their hackles raised. The two trailing dogs, seeing the leaders stop, skid to a halt, too. They snarl viciously, lips peeled back from their fangs, looking for an opening. Then the four dogs, as if led by one mind, do what canines in the wild do: they begin to circle us and close in.
Mom is crying like crazy—I've never seen her so afraid. I'm really scared myself. All I can do is keep picking up gravel and letting it fly as I spin around and around. The gravel does no real damage to the snarling, snapping dogs. However, with each throw and constant yelling, somehow I keep the pack from tightening the circle. Mom gets off her bike now. She grabs handfuls of gravel and begins throwing, too. Gradually, our combined efforts cause the dogs to back off. Finally, after a minute that seems like ten, the larger of the two shepherds, the alpha male, decides we're not worth it. Still barking, he turns and runs away, and the other dogs quickly follow.
As the dogs retreat back across the field through the tall grass, I continue to throw handfuls of gravel at them, even when they're hopelessly out of range. They're still barking, and I fear they may have second thoughts.
When the dogs are finally gone, Mom and I head for home. We're both really shaky for awhile, glancing behind us now and then until we reach the edge of the city.
For years, Mom will tell her dog story over and over again. She'll tell it to neighbors, family members, people at church. And each time she tells the story she'll end it with the same proud words as she puts her arm around me: "My son saved my life."