Here There Be Monsters

It's been over a month since I've walked with Duncan through the winding nameless stretch of grass directly in front of our apartment. That's where Gil roams and I haven't wanted to expose Dunc to that lunatic, red-eyed German Wirehaired Pointer since their last encounter. But the other night, after leaving Brady's, we cut through the yard, which seemed quiet and empty when we first stepped foot into it. And then all hell broke loose.

Gil appeared from nowhere. Pete, his companion, wasn't paying attention while he talked with Sarah and her yellow lab, Ross. Gil charged around the building, stopped short when he saw us and stiffened up. I saw the hackles raise on his shoulders and a moment before he jumped forward he seemed to smile. And then he was running across the yard at us, his head low, the force of his body in his shoulders, his mouth open and ears back. I could only watch while I pulled Duncan behind me and used myself to block Gil. I called out to Pete, bent my knees and braced for the attack. It felt like that scene in "Jaws" when Roy Scheider is the sole survivor from the ship and he's perched on its sinking mast with a rifle watching as the shark approaches for the kill.

I said very loudly, for Pete more than Gil, "I swear to God, if you touch my dog I will kick you in the head."

And then Gil was on us. He swerved around me, grabbed Duncan's flank in his teeth and yanked, growling as he pulled and ripped. Duncan hopped back but Gil followed, lunging for his ears, missing and getting his cheek. They circled around me, Duncan on his leash, Gil free and wild. Ruth had told me only the day before that you should grab a dog's hind legs to pull him from a fight, but I couldn't reach for Gil and didn't want to let go of Duncan's leash. They kept pulling me in circles, Duncan defending himself, Gil attacking, and I wondered where Pete was, why he wasn't doing something. It didn't matter because when Gil lunged at Duncan's throat I swung my foot back and kicked his head as hard as I could.

He sat back a moment, dazed, picked himself up and lunged again. I finally saw Pete, who was frantically trying to grab his collarless dog. Gil was moving so quickly, however, snarling so ferociously, that Pete couldn't get a grip on him. His fingers couldn't catch on that wiry coat and kept slipping off.

So I kicked him again, yelling Gil's name, demanding he sit. He snapped at my shoe, leapt at us again and wound up with my foot in his rib cage. Hard.

That got him. Gil fell over, which gave Pete time to throw himself on top of him and pull him away. Sarah was standing helplessly nearby holding Ross. I handed her Duncan's leash and stepped up to Pete, who held Gil but kept his head down.

"Put a goddamn leash on your goddamn dog!" I yelled. Pete didn't say anything, wouldn't even look up. "This is the fourth time your dog has attacked us. I'm sick of it! If I see him without a leash again I'll report you to the leasing office and the police."

Pete nodded but wouldn't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sarah released Ross, who hurriedly sniffed Duncan to make sure he was okay. Sarah smiled a sad smile as I thanked her, took Duncan's leash and walked him home to inspect him. He was frothy with Gil spit but there wasn't any blood. I dried him off, we cuddled on the floor and all was well.

The next morning I actually felt bad for kicking Gil. I'm a dog lover and I kept replaying the scene in my head looking for some other way it could have been handled. Brady and Ruth both assured me I'd done the right thing, that the fault was with Pete for not leashing his dog. I agreed, but I kept wondering how I'd feel if I watched a stranger kick Duncan in the head and ribs. I finally decided that the next time I saw Pete I was going to talk with him, apologize for kicking Gil and work to reach a peaceful agreement.

And then came last night. We'd strolled down the Run, played in The Glen and were on our way home, skirting the edge of the winding yard where Gil roams, the once nameless grounds where Duncan and I used to watch bunnies in the morning, where he plays with Sophie, where we stood down a coyote. After two years of not knowing what to call it, I now call it The Lair.

Again, Gil appeared with Pete right behind him. I stopped and watched to see if Gil was finally wearing a collar or leash, neither of which he was. I stood dumbfounded as he trotted back and forth, head high, chasing a ball Pete was throwing. Then he stopped, turned and stared at us. I took a step back but Pete whistled and Gil sat down.

"Is he on a leash?" I asked.

Pete held up a leash, coiled around his hand but not attached to Gil. He dropped a bag of Gil shit in the garbage can, turned away and snarled at me over his shoulder, "Get fucked."

Apparently Pete doesn't play nice either and I no longer feel like apologizing.