Confronting me fiercely, the old bitch screamed, “You hate dogs! You hate dogs! You hate dogs!” Her shiny, silver-gray hair, cut too short around her thick neck, bobbed absurdly up and down as she indignantly marched along side of me and continued yelling. Then the demented, old bag crossed directly in front of me and blocked my path with the leash. I was out for my morning stroll in the lush grass of Courtyard Park just down from my home on the hill, and I was in no mood for this nonsense.
Her loud accusations were an attempt to humiliate me, to draw attention to my preferences in public—which, of course, were different from hers. And she did turn heads. A number of people, some others with dogs, watched the spectacle with interest but kept their distance. This perceived audience further encouraged her. “She hate dogs!”
Purposely stepping on the leash of her so-called companion, I stopped to look her directly in the eye, knowing this would be most threatening. Suddenly she pulled away, looking around to find witnesses just in case I stooped to the level of honoring her attack—with one of my own. Rather, though, I turned my back to pick up my pace across the lawn. But I could feel the wetness—sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff on the backs of my heels.
I whirled around to growl at the elderly man because this unpleasantness was all his fault. He was stunned, immobilized by fear that if he dare moved, I might hurt the bitch he doted on. Finally, he yanked the retractable leash, and the harassment by the beast with the ridiculous haircut stopped. Even though irritated, I continued on my morning route. Keeping ears and tail high, I heard from somewhere behind me the now familiar cry, “Hey, look! There goes a coyote!”
Image Credit: © asmakar / Dollar Photo Club