And . . . (*+%#!*) . . . SCENE.
CHANGE. Loose coins. Fresh clothes. Fancy footwork. A wallop of new, different, dramatic or subtle. Seasonal, lunar, elemental. Solid, liquid, vapor. Seed to bud to flower. Dark to light. Calm to storm. Pleasant morning routine to dog encounter gone wrong.
I can’t tell you what she was thinking as she came up from behind us, not five feet from me and my dogs on their six foot leashes, where we had stopped to sniff the grass while I wrapped the dog shit I had just collected into the corner of the only bag I had left, which sported a two-finger-sized hole in one corner. Why hadn’t I noticed that?
Every walk, without fail, I scanned the goings and comings of foot traffic forward and back, guiding our pack away from walkers, runners, and cyclists. Deferring to incomers, I would cross the street or step aside half-a-block in advance. All the regulars knew my style. Six years of neighborhood routine had cemented my MO.
Still fumbling with the sack of doggie dung, I missed what must have been hidden behind the oak tree at the corner and was approaching from behind. The leashes in my right palm pulled like the reins of an iditarod sled in full flight. “AAAHHHHH!” I bellowed as I stumbled forward, stomp, stomp, stomping down the rise toward the sidewalk. I begged for gravity and pulled the leashes to my chest with all my might, begging the dogs to Come! Come! Come! The instigator came into view. A toy schnauzer snarled as its keeper pulled it into the street.
I forced my way backwards, keeping my eyes on the distance between the twig-legged woman and her squirrely companion, who seemed to have frozen in place on the curb. In graphic novel style, a thought bubble exploded above the lanky hipster chick holding back her snarling dogs — What the hell were you thinking? — while blazing daggers of blame flew at the silver sandals and the lolling braided leash attached to the tiny bombshell.
I pulled Mocha and Happy up the rise to the chilly shade where we had been seconds before. There on lush grass lay the dog shit, barely bagged. The intruders moved on with oblivious swishes and trots while my heart pounded like a train rumbling the rails through a canyon.
I imagined the carnage of a dog tornado, the bloody smack of misfortune, a gangly loss of control. What if I hadn’t been able to pull back the leashes? What if I had lost all composure? What if I was at fault? Mind twisters wreaked havoc, my heart still ramming my chest, I stepped back onto the sidewalk, looked right and left, felt the tugs on the traces, and shivered. Which way should we go?
