down the steps, but then hesitated, the green door to my right, the living room to the left. The door offered protection, but only temporary. The living room exited to the porch, then my truck, which was the only sure means of escape. Drive half a mile on Pay Day Road, I would have a cell signal again and could call the police. But the wild barking of the dogs was so close now—would they catch me as I crossed the yard?
Not if I hurried! So I turned left. Stumbled over the shovel, hesitated again before picking it up, then sprinted down the hall toward the living room. The pine floor was slick. A shovel is also an awkward tool to run with. I had to slap a hand on the wall to make my final turn, skidded on the broken glass, and then continued more cautiously. I kept my eyes on the open doorway. It was a beacon, an airy rectangle bright with daylight and freedom, that, oddly, had muted my own hearing as abruptly as the wide-screen TV, where, on the game show, a young woman was weeping, whether for joy or in despair I neither knew nor cared. Three strides from the door, though, I stopped, my head tilted, straining to hear.
The dogs—they had stopped barking.
Why?
I wasn’t deaf. I banged the shovel on the floor to prove it to myself. The thunk
of metal on wood registered in my ears, but my attention was already riveted to a more chilling sound: claws clattering on gravel; a heavy, wolfish breathing so close that the slap of a panting tongue was unmistakable. I took a step back when the panting stopped. It was replaced by the rumble of a dog growling.
No . . . two dogs. Their silhouettes trotted across the lighted doorway. Both pit bulls, their heads the size of concrete blocks, stubby horns for ears, on dwarfed bodies of brindle-yellow fur and muscle, drifted past unaware of my presence. I pressed my back against a wall and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. It didn’t save me. The odor of my skin, my clothing, the odor of my fear, was in the air, and one dog stopped, lifted his nose to taste my scent, then returned to the doorway and looked inside. Soon, he was joined by the other dog, both animals alert, intense, their tiny eyes now so focused on me that the flooring vibrated when they began to growl in unison.
I have been charged by dogs while jogging and know it’s best to take the offensive. I’ve backed down collies and retrievers and even a pit bull, who was so instantly sweet that he had begged me to scratch his ears, then followed me home.
It was a strategy worth trying. “Get out of here!” I yelled, and banged the shovel hard on the floor. I took a step toward the door and did it again. “Get!”
These dogs, however, were not sweet-natured. They looked half starved, all jaws and instinct, and they came at me when I moved. The lead dog—there’s always an alpha dog—came first, trotting toward me, then lunged, stiff-legged, and roared when I jabbed the shovel at it. She was female, judging from the absence of the testicles that hung so prominently from the second dog, who was larger and also slyer. He slunk into the room without barking, teeth bared, and disappeared behind the overturned recliner. When he reappeared, he was to my left, and moving toward the hall, an attempt to corner me, I realized—two dogs who hunted as a pack. I began to sidestep toward the bigger male because the hallway was my only escape.
When the female charged again, I swung the shovel too hard and the thing almost flew out of my hands. The near loss frightened me so badly, I felt an electric sensation between the ears. With it bloomed a horrible certainty that these animals, if they got me on the ground, would not just maul me, they would feed on me. I could not lose the shovel. I could not lose my footing. Turn my back on either pit bull, even for an instant, and that would be the beginning of an assault so horrible I couldn’t allow myself to contemplate it—nor would I tolerate the indignity these animals were forcing
Not if I hurried! So I turned left. Stumbled over the shovel, hesitated again before picking it up, then sprinted down the hall toward the living room. The pine floor was slick. A shovel is also an awkward tool to run with. I had to slap a hand on the wall to make my final turn, skidded on the broken glass, and then continued more cautiously. I kept my eyes on the open doorway. It was a beacon, an airy rectangle bright with daylight and freedom, that, oddly, had muted my own hearing as abruptly as the wide-screen TV, where, on the game show, a young woman was weeping, whether for joy or in despair I neither knew nor cared. Three strides from the door, though, I stopped, my head tilted, straining to hear.
The dogs—they had stopped barking.
Why?
I wasn’t deaf. I banged the shovel on the floor to prove it to myself. The thunk
of metal on wood registered in my ears, but my attention was already riveted to a more chilling sound: claws clattering on gravel; a heavy, wolfish breathing so close that the slap of a panting tongue was unmistakable. I took a step back when the panting stopped. It was replaced by the rumble of a dog growling.
No . . . two dogs. Their silhouettes trotted across the lighted doorway. Both pit bulls, their heads the size of concrete blocks, stubby horns for ears, on dwarfed bodies of brindle-yellow fur and muscle, drifted past unaware of my presence. I pressed my back against a wall and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. It didn’t save me. The odor of my skin, my clothing, the odor of my fear, was in the air, and one dog stopped, lifted his nose to taste my scent, then returned to the doorway and looked inside. Soon, he was joined by the other dog, both animals alert, intense, their tiny eyes now so focused on me that the flooring vibrated when they began to growl in unison.
I have been charged by dogs while jogging and know it’s best to take the offensive. I’ve backed down collies and retrievers and even a pit bull, who was so instantly sweet that he had begged me to scratch his ears, then followed me home.
It was a strategy worth trying. “Get out of here!” I yelled, and banged the shovel hard on the floor. I took a step toward the door and did it again. “Get!”
These dogs, however, were not sweet-natured. They looked half starved, all jaws and instinct, and they came at me when I moved. The lead dog—there’s always an alpha dog—came first, trotting toward me, then lunged, stiff-legged, and roared when I jabbed the shovel at it. She was female, judging from the absence of the testicles that hung so prominently from the second dog, who was larger and also slyer. He slunk into the room without barking, teeth bared, and disappeared behind the overturned recliner. When he reappeared, he was to my left, and moving toward the hall, an attempt to corner me, I realized—two dogs who hunted as a pack. I began to sidestep toward the bigger male because the hallway was my only escape.
When the female charged again, I swung the shovel too hard and the thing almost flew out of my hands. The near loss frightened me so badly, I felt an electric sensation between the ears. With it bloomed a horrible certainty that these animals, if they got me on the ground, would not just maul me, they would feed on me. I could not lose the shovel. I could not lose my footing. Turn my back on either pit bull, even for an instant, and that would be the beginning of an assault so horrible I couldn’t allow myself to contemplate it—nor would I tolerate the indignity these animals were forcing
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