Playing Chicken with a Dachshund
From Davislifemagazine.com
As distressed as I am by the barking dogs that surround my home, it may come as a surprise to you that A) I really like my neighbors, and B) I don't really hate dogs. I know that sounds as likely as tofu-flavored cigarettes, but hear me out.
My neighbors (the ones with the barking dogs) took in an additional animal. The new canine resident was a bratwurst-sized dachshund I shall call "Zola." She was to be cared for by the neighbor boy. It was to be a temporary arrangement; a long weekend of dog sitting while Zola's owner was away. It nearly ended in disaster when the tiny beast escaped from the yard and charged headlong at my car.
I was returning from the Nugget with a load of groceries and a small child (my own child. To the best of my knowledge the Nugget is not involved in human trafficking), when I was surprised to see Zola skittering down the middle of my street. I was more surprised that she chose to play chicken with my vehicle, rather than darting out of the way. I can only surmise that her brain is not large enough to hold the data required for self-preservation.
I avoided crushing the animal beneath my wheels, but I feared that the next driver she encountered might not possess my high level of automotive mastery. After all, I am a former Woodstock's pizza-delivery professional. My car is an extension of my consciousness.
I parked (perfectly) in front of my house and appraised the situation. If Zola continued to run down the middle of the street, she would shuffle off her mortal coil, the neighbor kid would be overwhelmed with guilt, and Zola's owner would have too much dog food. So I tucked my kid under my arm like a football, and I ran after Zola. I called to her in my best, non-threatening, not-a-stranger-carrying-a-smaller-stranger-and-running-at-you kind of voice.
Zola looked over her tiny shoulder at me and continued her frantic staccato pace. She was narrowly missed by a Toyota Prius (the silent killer).
At this point in the narrative, I should point out that I was not wearing shoes. I can't tell you exactly why, but I was barefoot. I just take off my shoes sometimes for no apparent reason and leave them behind. This happens at home, at work, in restaurants. Really, it's a terrible habit. I blame my mother. She spends half her life looking for her shoes, and I inherited her defective genes. The problem is compounded now that I have a gimpy foot. It HURTS to run barefoot. Yet still, I leave my footwear behind.
So there I was: barefoot, a kid under my arm, a carload of melting groceries, and chasing a suicidal dog. Am I the only person in the world who finds himself in these situations?
I needed to regroup. I returned home as fast as my feet could slap across the pavement, and arrived just as my lovely wife pulled up.
"Here," I panted, thrusting my confused child at my wife. "I need .shoes. Zola. Prius. Please. unload my. car."
My lovely wife is used to this sort of thing. She took the kid and walked directly to my car.
"Are these the shoes you want?" She picked up a pair of battered sandals from the floorboards.
"Thanks," I panted.
Zola was now several blocks away. She was on the green belt, safe from traffic but in no less danger. Her tiny brain had no room for common sense. It was only a matter of time before she ventured back into traffic, or was run down by a mountain bike, or devoured by a burrowing owl.
I ran after her. She spied me as soon as I picked up the pace, and she began sprinting once again. After a few minutes of chasing her I had a terribly unpleasant realization. I wasn't going to catch her. Though Zola's legs were only slightly longer than my big toe, she was fast, had a huge head start, and I was 40, out of shape and already had a side ache.
I stopped before I had to confront the terrible reality of a tiny dog running farther and faster than I could. I turned around and jogged painfully home to fetch my bike.
Once mounted on my bike, I was able to cover a lot more ground. I searched the greenbelt and surrounding streets until I discovered Zola.
She was still running at top speed. I pulled up next to her and . what exactly was I planning to doing? Leaping off the bike and tackling her? Throwing a lariat around her neck? Stunning her with a well-thrown water bottle? I hadn't thought that far ahead.
I used my Human Master voice, the deep resonating voice of command -
"STOP!"
She skittered on.
"NO!"
No change.
"SIT!"
"PLAY DEAD!"
"QUIT MESSING WITH ME!"
She ran faster. I rolled up beside her and pushed her over with my foot. (I did not kick her, I PUSHED her over with my foot). She went down gracelessly. She rolled, skidded and spun a 180. She immediately took off in the opposite direction.
I turned my bike around, caught up to her and gave her another nudge. She went down again. We repeated this process several times.
A nearby soccer game nearly came to a halt as the players and spectators looked on in confused disapproval. But finally, Zola was beat. She stayed down, panting wildly.
I scooped up her tiny, hot body in my arms and returned home. She writhed and snapped listlessly. She drew very little blood.
When my neighbors returned, I handed them a cat-carrier with Zola inside. I offered no explanation. Really, who wants to admit to an epic running battle with a dachshund?