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True story: I was strolling along the river path through Prairie Oaks Metro Park near West Jefferson one afternoon two summers ago when a family of three or four, walking two leashed pit bulls, turned a leafy corner 15 yards away, coming toward me.
The moment their dogs saw me, a man and a girl had to pull mightily on the straining leashes as the hyper, powerful dogs lunged my way. Quickly, I jumped off the path to save myself. Then insult was added to near injury when no apology came from the owners, just a very unconvincing muttering of, “Oh, they’re just being friendly.”
Friendly, my asparagus.
So much for a mellow, meditative walk through beautiful woods.
A version of that incident, however, happens almost every time I walk in Grandview, where I live. Sometimes, more than once per evening stroll—though never with pit bulls, at least not yet.
Grandview folks are a bit more genteel.
But one constantly is shoved off the sidewalk by slobberingly obnoxious poodles, terriers, collies, shepherds, mixed breeds, mongrels and mutts. And their owners sheepishly semi-apologize or, worse, lovingly approve of their little rascal’s demonic behavior.
So, who owns the sidewalk? Man or mutt? Pedestrian or pup? Citizen or canine?
In Grandview, two legs have yielded to four paws advancing (sometimes eight). That’s the way it is, though that’s the way it wasn’t up until it seems the last couple of years, when the dog population apparently spiked.
Dog-to-shoe confrontations piled up. Sheepishness accrued. Annoyance simmered, unrelieved.
At this point in my tale of a suburban walker’s woe, let’s get one thing straight, right up front: I’ve loved a dog or two in my life. Deeply.
Petric family furball Clara and I used to chase rabbits at midnight back when I was so young and so fit I could almost catch a fleeing bunny myself. Later, my fellow college-dropout roommate, Wolfie, and his dog, Safron, and I competed weekly to see who could jump higher in our living room to the Rolling Stones live album, Love You Live, particularly the power-chord coda of “Star Star.”
So don’t think I’m an automatic canine-despiser, especially in light of my pro-kitty/anti-cat-abandonment column two months ago.
Dogs also should never be abandoned, though I think we could do without a few owners.
After several fruitless months of trying to walk in peace, and with the man-mutt encounters piling up, I have considered my unpleasant options:
1. Negotiations. As in, I’ll give your animal a Milk-Bone if you can guarantee safe passage.
2. A swift but largely symbolic kick at the dog.
3. Same thing as No. 2, but to the owner’s shins.
4. Avoidance, by crossing the street.
5. Total surrender, remaining on the couch.
I have surrendered for the most part, retreating to No. 5—and no dogs are allowed on my couch, either.
Do I fear the furries? Heavens, no. Perhaps more accurately, I defer to the furries. It’s the owners I mildly loathe. It’s such a simple thing to curb your dog. But to paraphrase the Bobby Fuller Four: I fought the dogs and the dogs won. The sidewalk is yours, man and best friend. You can annoy me no more.
And that’s why I skateboard down the street now.
