OH MY GOD, ALL OF THIS. As a rule, I’ve never liked dogs or trusted dog owners for these exact reasons. And it’s been like that for as long as I can remember—I lived over the fence from dogs that Would Not Shut The Fuck Up for several years—but one experience in particular stands out in my memory.
Once, as I was walking home in my freshman year of high school, I realized the dog across the street was loose. It wasn’t a big dog, but it definitely wasn’t small either—mixed breed, I think, medium in size but fast and strong in body, and I was petite at the time. I cautiously approached my house and made it all the way to my front door, but then the dog ran at me from across the street, and I mean barreling at me full speed.
I was terrified. I couldn’t think what to do, so I just… curled up on the ground, trembling, and tried to make myself as tiny and non-threatening as possible, covering my neck just in case. I couldn’t see what was going on, but I could hear and feel it pacing around, sniffing at me and my backpack. I had to stay there for several minutes, first waiting for it to leave, then because I had to catch my breath.
After a long time, I risked peeking up, very slowly. The dog was back at its own front door, across the street. I got back down again to reach for my keys in the purse at my side. I knew I’d only have a few seconds before that dog could reach me, so I’d have to make a mad dash for it if I wanted to get inside the house. Gathering all my courage, I stood up and went for the door. I was shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the lock, but I made it.
As I opened the door, I could see it right behind me, charging at me—who knows what it would do if it caught me. I raced inside and slammed the door behind me, and I could hear it scrabbling at the door and barking. I leaned against it for a solid couple minutes till I got my strength back.
The first thing I did was call my mother, because I was 14 and had no idea what else to do. My neighbors never apologized; my mother says that, when she confronted them, they insisted that oh, Paco was a good dog! Paco wouldn’t hurt anybody! Paco just wanted to play! Excuse me, your dog decided the entire court was its territory, threatened a small teenage girl, tried to attack her mother’s car when she came home hours later, and cornered an old lady in her very own garage. That is not playing. Fuck you for dismissing everyone else’s experiences and failing to discipline your animal appropriately.
…But really, what annoys me most is that until I tell that tale, people assume I’m “just a hater”, as one of the above responses puts it. And even after that, most of them assume I don’t like them because of that experience, or that I’ve developed a phobia. Nope. I’m not afraid of dogs, but I’ve hated most of them and their self-righteous owners for as long as I can remember. That particular experience just proved me right.
