Dogged

A few weeks ago, on the way to the grocery store along the train tracks, I was beset by a pack of dogs. Nearby humans were completely uninterested in my safety. I whirled in circles shouting “NO!” palms out, but still one darted in and nipped my calf, twice. Did not break the skin, but adrenalized The Bod to the extreme.

Finally an SUV came along the dirt frontage road and broke up the party. “You need a stick,” said the driver. I continued on my way, sweating and panting, glancing back every so often, but the dogs were done.

The next time I wanted to pass that way, I carried rocks, prepared. Three times I fired on snarling dogs—including the biter—and they always backed off. Proudly I stalked in my baja boots, ready and able to protect myself. It does not come naturally, and I practiced again and again. 

But later, safe on Habibi with food and water, I pondered their behavior and mine. I wondered about alternative solutions. Of course they’re pissed, they’re hungry and hot, just like me, and are shown very little affection. There is also a junkyard dog on that path, tightly chained, behind a fence that corrals many beat-up vehicles. She barely has room to pace. And on one side of the tracks is a flattened dog pelt, probably a victim of a rocketing taxi or truck. It is a hard life for a canine. It is a hard life for a human. Fear rules the day.

Why continue on this lane? Because I like to stride on dirt. Because the sky is wide with high white clouds. Because I can smell actual desert – dusty sage and olive scrub and the faint sweet scent of creamy mesquite flowers. Despite the occasional danger, there are kilometers without people, without as much traffic as on the paved thoroughfares that run parallel only a block away. 

This week I armored myself again, and when I reached the furious junkyard dog, I threw her a hotdog. When I returned, my wagon laden with citrus and chicken and Cheerios, her bark was completely different. Instead of, “I’m going to rip your throat out!” she said, “So, any more of those?”

“Yes,” I replied, and threw another hotdog to the hot dog over the fence.

That evening, walking back from the one good shower, a boatyard dog barked at me. “Oy,” I said, “it’s me!” and he immediately trotted over and leaned against my thigh. The fur between his ears is soft, like sable, and we stood in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, for a long time. Comforting each other.