mean dog Now that the weather is getting warmer here in Pa., my sister Marlene and I have begun walking 30-45 minutes a day after work. We weave our way through her neighborhood, happy in the knowledge that spring is right around the corner and that we’re so dedicated to our exercise routine. We’ll be hotties by May, I’m sure of it.

Our walks are always pleasant and uneventful. But last Thursday was different. As we passed a random house, I heard a dog barking nearby and glanced over to find an unleashed one running straight towards me. I prayed there was an invisible fence that would stop it in its tracks. No such luck. He ran out into the street, right up to my knees and thought to himself “Do I take a bite out of the left leg or the right?”

I screamed immediately and Marlene grabbed my hand and pulled hard. “Come over here! Hurry!” My heart was already racing from our aerobic walking, but it was beating even faster at the prospect of having to fend off this creature. Its owners called to it, but it did not respond.

Marlene yanked me along and I never looked back. And then I almost started to cry. Still shaking a block away, I lectured to no one in particular that dog owners need to leash their dogs. Yes, I know most of the time dogs are fuzzy-wuzzy puppy wuppies, but you can never really predict how they’ll act in every situation.

I’m afraid of a lot of strange things, but my fear of dogs is not without reason. When I was a kid we lived near a couple who owned a German Shepherd we’ll call Satan. Our backyards faced each other, split by a small alley. Whenever they couple would come home from somewhere, the dog would freely jump out of the car and start barking at everything. He was as nasty as they come, but its owners loved him. “Oh, he won’t bite,” they would always say.

One day while sledding down the Ice Hill of Death, I made the mistake of heading down just as they were coming home. My timing couldn’t have been worse. Their car door flew open and out came Satan.

All I remember was “Uh-oh. This isn’t good.” I was completely prone. Laying on my back and unable to stop the sled, it wasn’t long before I was met by a face full of glistening, razor-sharp teeth. I’m shaking as I write this. I never felt as defenseless before or since.

I remember screaming as Satan lined up his jaw, ready to take that first succulent bite of me. He went right for the head. Because I was shielding my face with my arm, that was all he could manage to sink his teeth into. Luckily, I was wearing a very thick coat and his teeth only got as far as the inner lining. Thank God for small miracles.

The woman yelled “Oh, it’s OK. You’re OK.” Um, no. I’m not OK. Your dog’s trying to eat my face and would you kindly get him off me? Her husband managed to break things up and I hightailed to my house, tears freezing to my face.

When I got my coat off and showed my parents my arm, we were all relieved there was no blood. He hadn’t punctured the skin, but there were rows of swollen red marks where a clamped jaw had just been. My peace-loving parents contemplated the rest of the night whether they should press charges against the owners, since it could have been much worse and I was still such a mess afterward.

They ultimately decided against it and everyone went on their merry, separate ways. Our families never spoke again, though a few evil eyes were exchanged over the years.

No, I wasn’t seriously hurt and I’m thankful for that. But some thirty years later, I still remember what that bite felt like and I’ll always be fearful of strange dogs, except ridiculously tiny ones that I can swat away like gnats. It’s the big ones that do me in every time. Thanks, Satan. Thanks a lot.

Stumble it!