From Baghdad To America by Lt. Col. USMC (ret.) Jay Kopelman

outings, homed in on her seven-year-old son, and dragged the boy to the ground as if he were another puppy. I didn’t see this entire scenario unfold, but because my wife swears it did, I have to believe her. (I like to think it was a way for her to start a deeper conversation with me without being too obvious.) This is the way the op went down: One minute I was talking to another of the local dog owners, and the next, “Hey, your dog bit my son!” Panic struck. In La Jolla, the penalty for a dog bite is euthanasia for the offender, the owner, and all their kind.
    I ran to them as fast as I could, expecting to see a gaping wound where Lava had sunk his fangs into this poor child’s arm or leg and taken out a chunk of flesh. Instead, much to my relief, there was mostly dog saliva on the boy’s wrist. In that moment of giddiness over my worst fears not being realized, I quickly regained my composure, put a look of deep concern on my face, and said, “Well, does your son have any diseases I should worry about?” Smooth, no? Man, I am Rico Suave, am I not? What woman could resist that line? That witticism? She should have been dropping her panties for me right then and there. Well, that’s how I like to tell the story anyway—and some of my friends not-so-jokingly say I really believe it might have happened that way.
    They have suggested at times that I was still in predator mode, a warrior hunting for his prey, lying in wait—the hunter-killer mode that I’d so easily fallen into in Iraq and that had become so much a part of me, both in body and soul. Not exactly flattering, but it’s definitely something I’ve considered. Lava had worked hard on me to break this pattern and focus on the more important particulars of life such as playing with a stick, but I’d been a Marine for far longer than he’d been alive. In this case, however, I’ll let the comments slide, as sometimes the ends justify the means. Which they absolutely have.
    I do know that after I nearly pissed my pants with fear and concern over the alleged dog bite, I very sincerely asked if the boy was okay and checked him out thoroughly, making a mental note to myself to call my attorneys first thing in the morning—just in case. The beauty of all this, however, was that it put me in close proximity to a lovely woman and gave me the opening I’d been looking for. I sat down next to her and began what was probably our first real conversation, despite the nerves I was feeling.
    Over the next few weeks, I’d see Pam at the park and we’d talk about the mundane and the interesting, though the courtship really wasn’t going anywhere yet. Then, one Sunday morning—October 2, 2005, to be exact—I was at the park early with Lava. There was no one else around at that hour, and I couldn’t help thinking about what a great day it was going to be and how it could only be more perfect if, during this period of calm, Pam just happened to show up alone with her dog so that I could really get down to business. And then, as though the angels had heard me, it happened. I saw Koda (Pam’s dog) first as she rounded the corner, followed by Pam, wearing flip-flops; the white denim mini skirt with the frayed hem that I’d come to love because it showed off her lean, tan, muscular legs so very nicely; and her trademark Ironman (outrigger canoeing competition) sweatshirt that had allowed me my first opening when I inquired once if she did triathlons and if she’d actually done Ironman Hawaii.
    She approached from the southwest, the sunlight glowing on her auburn hair, an aura literally surrounding her. She moved with the ease and grace of an athlete, at the same time exhibiting an almost feline quality (tiger or lioness) that allowed her to exude sensuality and sexuality in every step. My heart did backflips, my mouth went temporarily dry as I smiled like the village idiot and waved. She