Random Childhood Memory: Demon Dog
My earliest memories were born in the country, and include the snake race, the fishing hole, me and Joey, corn treasure, the afore-mentioned "Mamaw and the fan" story, and lots more. While living out in the country we didn't have many houses near-by. My grandparents lived about ¼ mile up the dirt road, an Aunt and Uncle another ¼ mile farther, and that was it for neighbors within a couple of miles. As to playmates, there were none but my older brother. Brother Number One is a bit more than three years my senior, so started school when I was three -- leaving me at home with no playmates for most of the day (which brings us to Joey, who I'll detail another time). But a few weeks into my first grade year, we moved "to town," in a subdivision where you could walk down the road and every thirty paces you'd pass a different house. Lots of folks living around.
There were a lot of changes to get used to after moving into town, with house after house within twenty feet of each other, and various and sundry other differences from country living. One difference I discovered the day of moving in, and that was the difference between the country dogs I was used to and strange new city dogs now in my neighborhood. If you lived out in the country, especially if you grew up there, you knew all the local dogs--some three or four, tops. They also knew you. While they would bark at anyone or anything they didn't know, they knew me and we were friends. Strange dogs you had to take care around was a concept that hadn't as yet been born in my six year old brain, as every dog I saw was one I knew and was as friendly as you could want. However, upon unloading a few things at the new house, I jumped on my bike for the first bicycle ride in the new neighborhood. I'd been looking forward to this, as pavement was also something that was new in my experience, and it certainly appeared it would make for much easier biking than the grass and gravel I was used to.
About ninety or so steps down from my house -- or three houses -- an oversized ball of fur came tearing out from behind the house and headed toward me barking up a storm. No problem, the country dogs would sometimes run along beside the bike while I rode, so having this nice new dog to run along beside me wasn't an issue. But the closer the dog came, the barking was seen to be less than friendly; in fact, a few snarls, slobber, snapping teeth, and (if memory serves) demonic glowing red eyes became apparent. It was obvious and without a doubt that this dog was planning to chew off my right leg.
In thinking back, I still cannot clearly determine what decisional process led me to my response, but I jumped off the bike and ran for the house. Knowing I can ride faster than I can run, I still jumped off and ran for it. My best guess is that I must have decided changing from a heading of due north to a heading of due south would require much less time if I abandoned the bike than if I stayed on the bike. Apparently, at six, I had grasped acceleration calculation factors but hadn't yet mastered time/speed/distance equations. Regardless of the reason, that's what I did, and it worked.
Jumping off the bike totally confused the demonic monster that had come after me; obviously he had never witnessed such a response. You could see the confusion in his wrinkled demon-dog forehead as he worked through the problem: "Am I chasing the kid? Am I chasing the bike? Kid? Bike?" It had always been a package deal before, and now Fido-From-Hell didn't have a clue what to do. So while FFH was torn between eating me or eating the bicycle, I made my escape.
Interestingly enough, I've no other memories of being bothered by that dog though I do remember continuing to ride my bike in the neighborhood. I can only assume FFH would see me go by and decide he didn't want to again go through those moments of doubt he had experienced. Doggy physiologists were still a thing of the future, so he had nowhere to turn to help sort through his emotional upheaval. Better just to let that strange, puzzling fellow go about his business.
While my encounter with the demon-dog left me shaken, it's probably where I first began to give credence to the at-the-time unknown-to-me adage that if you can't dazzle 'em with brilliance, then baffle 'em with . . . well, let's just say if you confuse 'em enough everything might work out okay.
There were a lot of changes to get used to after moving into town, with house after house within twenty feet of each other, and various and sundry other differences from country living. One difference I discovered the day of moving in, and that was the difference between the country dogs I was used to and strange new city dogs now in my neighborhood. If you lived out in the country, especially if you grew up there, you knew all the local dogs--some three or four, tops. They also knew you. While they would bark at anyone or anything they didn't know, they knew me and we were friends. Strange dogs you had to take care around was a concept that hadn't as yet been born in my six year old brain, as every dog I saw was one I knew and was as friendly as you could want. However, upon unloading a few things at the new house, I jumped on my bike for the first bicycle ride in the new neighborhood. I'd been looking forward to this, as pavement was also something that was new in my experience, and it certainly appeared it would make for much easier biking than the grass and gravel I was used to.
About ninety or so steps down from my house -- or three houses -- an oversized ball of fur came tearing out from behind the house and headed toward me barking up a storm. No problem, the country dogs would sometimes run along beside the bike while I rode, so having this nice new dog to run along beside me wasn't an issue. But the closer the dog came, the barking was seen to be less than friendly; in fact, a few snarls, slobber, snapping teeth, and (if memory serves) demonic glowing red eyes became apparent. It was obvious and without a doubt that this dog was planning to chew off my right leg.
In thinking back, I still cannot clearly determine what decisional process led me to my response, but I jumped off the bike and ran for the house. Knowing I can ride faster than I can run, I still jumped off and ran for it. My best guess is that I must have decided changing from a heading of due north to a heading of due south would require much less time if I abandoned the bike than if I stayed on the bike. Apparently, at six, I had grasped acceleration calculation factors but hadn't yet mastered time/speed/distance equations. Regardless of the reason, that's what I did, and it worked.
Jumping off the bike totally confused the demonic monster that had come after me; obviously he had never witnessed such a response. You could see the confusion in his wrinkled demon-dog forehead as he worked through the problem: "Am I chasing the kid? Am I chasing the bike? Kid? Bike?" It had always been a package deal before, and now Fido-From-Hell didn't have a clue what to do. So while FFH was torn between eating me or eating the bicycle, I made my escape.
Interestingly enough, I've no other memories of being bothered by that dog though I do remember continuing to ride my bike in the neighborhood. I can only assume FFH would see me go by and decide he didn't want to again go through those moments of doubt he had experienced. Doggy physiologists were still a thing of the future, so he had nowhere to turn to help sort through his emotional upheaval. Better just to let that strange, puzzling fellow go about his business.
While my encounter with the demon-dog left me shaken, it's probably where I first began to give credence to the at-the-time unknown-to-me adage that if you can't dazzle 'em with brilliance, then baffle 'em with . . . well, let's just say if you confuse 'em enough everything might work out okay.
posted by Rick at 2:09 PM
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