To the Lady with the Three Big Dogs

(that attacked my dog)

It was a regular Friday morning, I thought. I figured I’d stretch my legs, collect endorphins I could cash in later that day, and get my pup, Archie, some exercise before the sun cranked its dial to “high.”

Your neighborhood was quiet. Pristine homes with their families still snug inside. The paved black streets calling early risers, inviting us to bask in the morning glow and all its feel-good effects before we began our day. I’m guessing you were out there, too, for the same reasons? It really is lovely in the morning.

I had just sent a voice message to a friend when I saw you up ahead on the left, untangling all the leashes. Three big dogs, each one tugging toward its own agenda. You have a yellow lab and a husky, is that right? Such pretty dogs. I didn’t have time to pinpoint the third.

I started crossing to the opposite side, the way I always do to create space between other early risers walking their dogs, but I didn’t make it past the middle of the street. That’s where I found my earbuds—that were jostled from my head and strewn across the asphalt—after it all happened.

I saw you struggle, fighting with all you had, as any one of us would have done. But their untamed strength overpowered yours. The screech of your panic rang in my ears as all three dogs lunged toward Archie and me, circling us, trapping us.

I held onto Archie as tightly as I could, you can vouch for that, yes? You had a better view from the outside. I tried to fend them off, screaming, guarding my pet as if he were my own flesh, but instead, the husky ripped into Archie’s. I can still see its razor teeth and hear it snarling. I can feel its hot, vicious breath, snapping its fangs at my usually happy copper fluffball, your dog chomping into my dog’s ear and side. Maybe your husky is usually happy, too?

Should I have let go of Archie’s leash? Where would he have run to? Would your dogs have chased him down and sunk their teeth deeper into his skin? Would he have needed more stitches than he already had under anesthesia? More medicine and a longer recovery time? Or, would he have made it somewhere safe? Would he have run all the way home?

I wish I could have run home.

But you can’t reason with fight or flight. You can’t tell your brain what to do when it’s trying to protect your body. My brain told me not to let go of the leash, but Archie’s brain red-flagged him to flee. That’s when I hit the ground. That’s when I was dragged across the road. That’s when my earbuds fell to the blacktop and my left arm and knee grated against the pavement as if they were blocks of parmesan.

Can you tell me what happened next? I can tell you how terrified I was. (You must have been, too.) I can tell you how traumatic it is to be ambushed by a gang of wild dogs, trying to protect my own. (It must have been sickening for you to see.) I can tell you it’s going to be a while before I walk Archie in that morning glow. (Perhaps you’re facing the same fate.) But what happened next?

“Is everything okay out there?” a man yelled from somewhere behind me. He was probably watering his pots of geraniums or marigolds that adorn his pristine home in his usually peaceful neighborhood.

I couldn’t speak, as I lay in the street. The fangs and snarls and flurry of raised fur had vanished, somehow. I peeled my body off the road and rushed my goldendoodle to the sidewalk.

I cradled Archie’s head into my neck. Hunched beside him, holding his trembling body, I tried to offer him safety, wishing I felt some of my own. I watched you on the other side of the street, now holding all three leashes, also hunched over, maybe a mound of guilt? (You must have been horrified.) We both called someone for help.

Archie wore a onesie for more than two weeks, so he couldn’t scratch at his stitched-up side. We bought it from the vet. I guess, technically you bought it, as you paid the bill. The back of the onesie says, Ruff Life. It is a Ruff Life in so many ways. Spontaneous animal attacks. Unexpected traumatic incidents. Astronomical vet bills. But it could have been much more terrifying with even more terrifying outcomes, so I can laugh at the sentiment that, yes, it can be a Ruff Life.

But I keep thinking about how Ruff that was for you, too. How helpless you must have felt, watching your dogs transform into wolves and unleash their fury on passersby. How did you handle it? Witnessing our fear unfold, viewing pain and panic you would have never wished for?

As I waited for my husband and daughter to rescue us on the side of the road, I watched as your help arrived first. I heard you cry out, “I can’t walk all of them at once! It’s too much! It’s just too much!”

My body still shaking, I felt an ounce of empathy. “It’s just too much.” I have spoken these words so many times. I understood your overwhelm. I understand what it’s like to feel exposed and powerless. Whether it’s dog leashes or what this Ruff Life throws at us, sometimes it’s all just too much to hold. Sometimes, we bite off more than we can chew. And so, we let go.

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Are you feeling like this Ruff Life is just too much right now? Let me know if there’s something that you need to let go of. OR, tell me what kind of pup you have. 🐶 I promise we can still be friends if it’s a husky 😉

If you enjoyed reading this, would you share it with a friend? Thank you x1,000,000.

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