Where the Wild Things Aren't

Some things are worth waiting for, and while the circumstances are not the best, the outcome––for Duncan and me and all the other dogs here at Raccoon Creek––has been worth the wait.

This morning I stood on my balcony, thirty-seven steps above the parking lot, and watched Pete and his wife pack the last of their belongings into a U-Haul, leash up Gil, take one last look around and then drive away from here forever. After a year of avoiding the little clearing among the buildings where the bunnies play, the place I dubbed The Lair after that night Pete stood idly by while his demon German Wire-Haired Pointer attacked Duncan, it is finally safe to venture back among the slowly budding Linden trees and low shrubs where the little birds hop and chirp.

There has been much talk of Pete and Gil among the residents here the past year. Despite Pete's initial assurance that Gil was friendly, the evidence was firmly against him. Nearly everyone I spoke with loathed the dog and had their own horrific encounters with them to share. Management had been made aware of them numerous times since my official report last July. Even Chelsea, owner of Hero's Pets, who lives in the building directly across from mine, who loves dogs and typically holds their companions responsible for their behavior, insisted there was something wrong with "that dog."

I'd heard a rumor a few weeks ago that they were moving but refused to believe it until I'd actually seen them depart. The circumstances of their departure, however, are quite sad. I'd noticed Pete's gray Ford Ranger sitting in the parking lot since January, often not moving for weeks at a time. I saw his wife walking Gil but for a long time Pete was nowhere to be found. The neighbor who told me they were leaving lives directly below them and confessed that Pete, no more than thirty years old, had suffered a stroke shortly after Christmas, and while he had survived and recovered, he was no longer able to drive. He'd been fortunate and was able to return to work but his wife had to drive him. Working on opposite sides of the city the daily commute had finally taken its toll and they'd decided to move closer to Pete's job to reduce the burden on her.

While I am sad to hear of Pete's health I cannot help but rejoice at their departure. I'd often stood outside in the early evenings watching them play off-leash with him and hoped they'd leave when their lease was up, I just didn't wish it to be under these circumstances.

I wish them well and hope they were able to get a nice big fenced-in yard where Gil can run, far away from other dogs which he is so obviously incapable of interacting with.

In the meantime, Duncan and I have a lot of new bunnies with whom to acquaint ourselves. And The Lair needs a new name for the monsters and wild things have finally taken their leave.

Balls

I could have been killed--or at least seriously wounded--while my best friend pranced around gaily, his tail wagging as I floundered in the tall grass, my last breath spent calling for help.

The Run, that narrow strip of land at the back side of our apartment complex which borders the golf course, is not all frolicking dragonflies and dew-sprinkled purple flowers. The morning and evening sun is faint but sweet and the silence is welcome as I trudge along behind Duncan as he snorts through the thick hedges, chasing squirrels up trees and batting at the honey bees who hover over the wild daisies. It's a beautiful little spot which ends at The Glen, where we toss a tennis ball or lay on the hillside watching the clouds drift lazily by above the aspens, but it's more wild and dangerous than I'd ever considered.


This afternoon while Duncan danced against the side of an elm in search of a squirrel who'd only narrowly escaped his clumsy bounding, I stood off by myself, a leash in one hand, a doggy bag in the other, softly singing Nat King Cole's "Nature Boy" and watching the sun sprinkle across the whispy grass and knotted tree trunks. Just when I'd reached that part of the song about the boy being "a little shy and sad of eye but very wise," I heard a strange popping noise in the tree above my head, sharp and fast like a brisk knock at a door. I looked up, momentarily dazzled by speckles of sunlight through the thinning elm leaves and saw the source of the disruption.

I stepped aside as a golf ball ricocheted through the branches and landed heavily against a rolling root, bouncing once before pitching through the grass where it struck the toe of my shoe and finally came to a stop. Duncan immediately lost interest in the squirrel and scooped up the ball in his mouth. It was not the first he's claimed on our walks through The Run--I have a drawer full of the things despite the fact that I don't let him play with them. I reached for him but he danced away and I chased after, finally pulling the sloppy wet thing from his mouth and tucking it into my pocket.

A moment later a second ball crashed through the trees, this one landing directly where I'd been standing only moments before. Duncan lunged for it, but I'd leashed him and pulled him quickly away. As we jogged back home, a dragonfly hovering just over my shoulder, I thought of all the balls we've recovered over the summer, the ones we've stumbled upon without giving the slightest thought as to where they came from, as though garden gnomes dropped them in the wee hours of the morning with the hope that we'd find them. Or the mornings I've sat at my desk nursing a cup of tea while Bob Dylan, Neko Case or The Old Crow Medicine Show played on the stereo, the cats sprawled at my feet in the sunshine, our heavy and well-earned peace rudely broken by the sudden thump of something striking the building not far from my window, a loud thumps that scatters the cats and shakes my art, makes my hand tremble around my mug while Roo whines and peeks meekly out the window.

I thought Gil and The Shepherds were the most we had to contend with. Nope, now we have to worry about golf balls. Killer golf balls raining from the sky.

A Known Name

As you can imagine, I've been thinking an awful lot about Gil and Pete and the threat they've become at the apartment complex where we live. It's been a difficult thing to deal with because I have a secret-- my landlords don't know I have a dog. Talking to them about The Gil Situation would mean a big confession on my part, a very high non-refundable pet deposit and a hefty increase in my rent, neither of which would be manageable this year. But I have to consider the safety of others, so I have read and reread the many comments posted on my last entry and have taken your words to heart. And after great deliberation I made my decision.

Yesterday was Rent Day so I stopped by the leasing office to drop off my check and to visit with Lealani, the woman who set up my lease and consoled me when things were rough last February. She's an incredible person, funny and smart, sensitive and warm, and of such a perfect height that draping an arm over her shoulder feels natural and easy. Sometimes after checking the mail I'll stop by the leasing office, not just for a piece of candy or the occasional cookie, but to sit for a few minutes and talk with her, to laugh and smile.

She was standing in the door as though she'd been waiting for me, a wide smile spread across her face. She peppered me with questions about my trip home, the high school reunion, Ken, but when she saw the look on my face she knew something was wrong and pulled me into the back room to talk about it. I don't like feeling like a narc, but I also value not being afraid when we walk, so I told her about Gil and Pete's blatant hostility toward my request. Lealani was shocked, asked if Duncan was okay and then told me she'd never heard of Gil. I was unable to tell her which apartment they lived in but told her where they roam. She shook her head and because she lives on property, told me the next time I see them off leash I am to knock on her door and bring her along so she can witness it and deal with it "in [her] own special way."

The best part is that at this point my rent isn't changing and all is well. And Duncan's name is known.

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.

Five Minutes

It was a beautiful night, a bit cloudy and cool, and the grass had somehow managed to stay wet despite a lack of rain. Pete's wife, who's name I still don't know, and Sara––companions to Ross, our new yellow lab friend, and Gil, of Gil-Peed-On-Duncan fame––were in relaxed and cheerful moods as they watched their dogs play in the wide lawn that flows between four of the buildings.

Spotting Gil, and not wanting to give Duncan another bath, I planned to slip through, say our hellos and head to the park, but Sara was tossing a ball for Ross while Gil lounged at his mistress's feet, his orange eyes rolling back in his mutt-shaped head while she stroked his belly. Ross spotted Dunc and trotted merrily up, dropping the ball at his feet, his tail swishing back and forth dragging his butt this way and that. Gil did a funny twist and climbed to his feet, sniffing between both Ross and Duncan. I dropped the leash and let the dogs play for a moment while we three grown-ups chatted.

And then the fight started. Duncan and Ross were chasing the ball and each other while Gil lagged behind. It was when Duncan plopped down on the ball and rolled over that Gil leapt forward, grabbed him around the neck, shook him hard as he turned him over and went for his throat. We all stiffened and jumped into action with Gil's mom leading the charge. She attempted to reach between the two dogs to separate them but Sara and I pulled her back and warned her against ever doing that in the future.

I expected the fight to peter out but it didn't. Gil caught Duncan's ear and made the most horrific noises while he thrashed about. Duncan twisted and snarled and pushed back against the German Wire-Haired Pointer but couldn't get the advantage. Finally I stepped between them, raised my foot and kicked Gil square in the face, pulling Duncan back as I did. Gil fell over, jumped back up and came at us from the other side where Sara was waiting with a clenched fist which she unleashed right into Gil's jaw. While his mother pulled him away by the collar, struggling against his ongoing snapping and growling and lunging, Sara and I knelt and tended to Duncan's ear, which was scratched and bleeding lightly but not damaged. I poured some water over it and because Dunc was anxious to play in the park we headed on our way.

Bowles is a six-lane road with a wide, grassy, tree-lined island running down the length of it. Duncan has been trained to sit and wait at the curb until I give the go-ahead and then dash beside me as quickly as we can to the shady island where we wait to cross to the park. We made it the island and because the wind had been fierce yesterday it was covered in downed sticks and branches. I spotted a nice brown one right at the tip of my shoe and as the traffic sped past us I reached down to grab it only to touch my fingers against the moist, scaly surface of a snake, pinned beneath my toe and attempting to curl around my ankle. Being deathly––absurdly, even––afraid of snakes my entire body seized up and spasmed as I leapt back, pulling Duncan, who'd been patiently sitting and waiting for the cars to clear. Before the snake had even slithered off into the long grass I dragged us across the street not feeling safe until we were on the other side.

I dropped Duncan's leash, scoured the ground for sticks and as we moved past the big willow and toward the side of the small hill on the north side of the lower soccer field, I found one, a solid one, fat and gray that did not slither and hiss. Duncan did his happy puppy dance as I peeled the loose bark from it then tossed it around the side of the hill and directly at the sixteen year old couple on the other side, one standing talking to his father on the phone, the other kneeling before him doing... certain things better suited for the back seats of cars than a public park.

"Dad, it's okay," the boy protested, looking directly at me as his girlfriend continued doing what she was doing. "We're at the park. Everything is cool. Believe me. I'll be home in an hour." He looked down at his girlfriend and smiled proudly.

My eyes widened when I realized what was happening. I hurried toward Duncan who was galloping straight at them.

"Roo! Come!" I called, at which point the girl stopped what she was doing and froze. Duncan looked at her, she looked at me and all I could think was, Okay, so if that was me, caught red-handed, so to speak, how would I want the grown-up to react?

So I did the only thing I could think of. I gave them both a thumbs up, grabbed Duncan's leash and hurried away.

All in five minutes.

Gil

There is a new dog here, a German Wirehaired Pointer who goes by the name of Gil. He's an ugly thing, tall and lanky with an unruly mop of spotted coarse brown fur and orange eyes. He looks like a mutt, the kind of dog which always smells bad, but his companion, Pete, a young guy who can't decide between a beard and a goatee, seemed quite proud telling me all about the breed. I only half listened, keeping my eye on Gil as he kept himself busy trying to mount poor Duncan, who was attempting to be polite, trying his hardest to avoid conflict by spinning in slow circles, always keeping Gil at his flank. He's quite willing to go along with just about anything, but the one thing Duncan won't tolerate is being mounted. After several attempts he turned and snapped at the red-eyed devil and reared back on his hind legs to demonstrate his authority. He is older than Gil, after all, and even though he's not quite as tall he's been roaming and marking these grounds since before the damn Pointer was even born. Pete seemed shocked at Duncan's behavior and said something about it.

"Well," I said. "Your dog is being is a bit domineering."

Pete shook his head. "Nope. No way. There's not a domineering bone in Gil's body," he told me and then went on to explain how Gil had been the sweetest little dog, blah blah blah, on and on, finally wrapping up with, "He's not the dominant type."

I glanced over to find Gil hovering above Duncan, his leg raised.

"Then why is he pissing on my dog?" I snapped as I pushed Gil out of the way and pulled Duncan to safety with only a little damage.

I don't think we'll be playing with them any time soon.

And it was time for a bath anyway.