Let's Go for a Walk

In my years of living in the area, there had never been a moment where I didn’t feel safe. Sure, there were a few scares with hooded men lingering around during the day and some very human-looking trees at night, but I never had (or knew anyone that had) experienced a harmful incident in Pine Hills. 

Of course, until the bumkins down the street moved in. 

They were called the Farmers. And the Farmers, well, they and their millions of conundrums made their way into Pine Hills and single-handedly ruined the pristine real estate value of the whole neighborhood. 

How could one house do that, you ask? 

The first problem was the parents. Mr. Farmer was an alcoholic who was always drunk, screaming, and causing problems. Mrs. Farmer, on the other hand, seemed to be an even bigger problem. She ever so kindly introduced gangs, drugs, and even some street racing to our community. Girl power? 

And before you say anything, no. Nothing good ever came from calling the cops. There was never enough evidence to incriminate Mrs. Farmer and never enough courage to deal with how she acted when she found out someone snitched. 

The second problem was the kids. The kids (however many of them there were) were a menace, which I could only assume sprouted from the highly-likely fact that their father drunkenly beat them and their mother was a gang leader. 

Well, the kids liked to play pranks. They liked to ding-dong ditch. They liked to egg and TP houses during Halloween. 

Which is all in good fun. Part of being a kid, I guess. 

The real problem with the kids was this: they held up traffic. There was even an organized system to do so. The gremlins would wait for a car to roll by, upon which they would then get their bikes and ride ahead to get in front of the vehicle. Then, they would gibingly do bicycle tricks in the middle of the road. They wouldn’t let the car continue on its way, and there wasn’t much anyone could do to stop the rascals. We couldn’t call the cops without Mrs. Farmer stalking us- with a shotgun in hand- for days after the fact. Our only other option was to run the kids over, which no one has yet dared. 

These two problems originating from the Farmer home all matured so quickly that I did not yet feel the urgent need to move out of Pine Hills. I foolishly believed that there was still hope for the neighborhood. 

Foolishly. But I learned better soon enough. 

The third problem, the problem that actually caused me to move far far away, was the dogs. 

You would think the ever-present violence and threat of being late for work would get to me. It certainly did, but not as much as this third problem. 

Again, before you say anything, I am a dog person. I love dogs. I have a dog, a happy Chesapeake Bay Retriever, that I proudly love more than any human being. 

But the Farmer dogs were not dogs. They were more similar to rabid wolves than loving household pets. 

I could deal with the creatures loudly barking late at night and early in the morning. I could deal with moving to the other side of the street when walking by their house because I didn’t want to risk being lunged at through the thin fence that barely held them inside the property line. 

But there was something I hadn’t considered: what happened when one of those dogs got loose? 

Naturally, I was the first to find out. 

It was a month ago this Wednesday, and Nala and I were out for a stroll. Nala was my retriever and therefore was very high maintenance. She was a smart dog, too. As soon as I told her, “Let’s go for a walk!” she would wag her tail excitedly, but still patiently wait for me to put her harness and leash on, just as she did that day. 

In an essence, she kept me in shape by constantly requiring exercise and attention. I had to take her for walks… even if Pine Hills was turning into a not-so-safe place to be. 

We had just passed the Farmer's house and Nala was bouncing around happily. It was such a perfect moment. I could smell the sweet aroma of spring in the air, and I could see the beautiful blue sky and its fluffy white clouds. But I couldn’t see what was coming next. 

I first heard the sound of thundering paws behind me. 

I turned around and met some sort of pit bull/boxer/mastiff mix. The trademark Farmer dog. It was giant, that beast. And fast. 

It was foaming at the mouth as it stopped in its tracks in order to size up Nala and me. It wasn’t a rabid kind of foam, it was a ‘hungry for blood’ foam. 

It snarled and pawed at the ground like an angry bull preparing to charge. 

I had nowhere to go. My house was still miles away and there was no way I was going to outrun that cheetah in dog form. 

So I did all I knew how to do. I kept still and avoided eye contact. Nala seemed to get the gist too, because she remained silent and perfectly still. 

I tried to tell the monster to ‘go home,’ just in case it knew that command. When that failed, I started to slowly back away with Nala closely following my every move. But the creature didn’t seem to like that. 

How did I know it didn't like that, you ask? 

Cause it attacked me, that’s how I know. 

It rushed at me, full force, so my first instinct was defensive. I tried to kick the animal away but missed because it had gone airborne. 

It jumped up and latched onto my arm, causing me to release Nala’s leash. And really, I was thankful that I had, because now Nala could run away. 

I never had thought of her as much of a loyal or brave dog, but the first thing Nala did was not to run. It was to attack that other dog. 

What ensued was an absolutely gruesome battle between the three of us, stopped after a few seconds only by the sound of a shotgun. 

Adrenaline pumping, I turned around to see where the blast had come from. It was Mrs. Farmer. 

The first thing I did was check myself for bullet holes. It was hard to tell because of all of the blood, but I was fairly certain I hadn’t been shot. 

Next, I checked Nala for the same. She was badly hurt in many ways but none from a bullet. 

Then I saw the creature, now motionless on the floor. Mrs. Farmer shot her dog to save Nala and me. Granted, it was her dog that almost killed us in the first place, but at least she didn't leave us for dead. 

I turned back to face the woman and she was gone. 

Quite the eventful Wednesday, I would say. 

Since then, well… It’s been hard. No doubt about that. 

After many hefty hospital bills, I was ready to move very far away. And move I did. 

Where, you ask? 

Right next to a police station. A station where I knew the officers would help me if I needed. I made sure of it.

And I also made sure my neighbors were not alcoholics, nor drug leaders, nor pesky children, nor angry dogs. 

So, as I moved into my new home, I began to feel safe again. My injuries started to heal. I had a few large scars, the biggest being the chunk taken out of my arm, and some damage to my left ear. But nothing compared to Nala. 

Don’t worry, she’s not dead. But she did lose an entire leg. 

She lost a whole leg, for me. To protect me. What a dog. 

And even after our move away from Pine Hills, even after ditching the Farmers, and even after Nala had flawlessly re-learned how to hobble around, it still took me a while to say, “Let’s go for a walk!” again.