"If I'd had a gun I'd have shot the son-of-a-bitch without a second thought!"
"I wish you had," Said my wife. "Next time you take Dak out you should take your pistol."
"It was frightening. We were just strolling along and he came out of nowhere like a fury. He was really big—a pit bull, I think." I explained. "He hit Dak like a freight train and took him down hard. Dak was crying and yelping in fear and pain while that big dog was all over him. I yelled, 'Get off!' and kicked him, hard, with my heel. He just ignored me, growling and, to all appearances, trying to kill our pup. I kept kicking and yelling for help. I was afraid to get between them. That pit bull had me scared."
After what seemed an eternity the dog's owner reached our location. Reaching in he grabbed the big dog's collar and pulled him off. The pit bull continued to growl and snarl. Dak quickly retreated behind me. Were he not on a short leash I'm sure he would have made himself more distant from the much larger and intimidating animal.
I quickly felt Dak for obvious signs of injury. It was hard to see well in the sparse light from the distant street lamp, but I found no blood or broken bones. Dak’s eyes held a look of pure terror. We were quickly joined by a woman, apparently the man's partner. "Is your dog OK?" She asked.
"As best as I can tell, yes," I said.
"He's not bitten, is he?" She asked. "Our dog is aggressive and doesn't know his own strength, but he's never bitten anyone or another animal."
“I don’t know your dog. I said. It seemed to me he was intent on killing us both, my pup first.”
I told her that I didn't find any signs of serious damage. We exchanged names and went our ways. The man never did say much. I didn't hear either of them call the pit bull by name. I don’t recall that either of them offered an apology. Dak was obviously still traumatized as we walked away. He stayed very close and kept glancing up at me. Poor little dog. In his two short years of life this is the first dogfight he's been in that I know of. He’s not an experienced street fighter; he’s never even outside that he’s not on his leash. A few more paces away, under the street lamp, we stopped so I could check him more thoroughly. I didn't find any real damage, although I reasoned there must be bruises under his curly white coat. What I did find was a mess. Dak had apparently been so frightened that he lost control of his bowels as the pit bull rolled and dragged him. His coat and tail were badly soiled. I wiped him off the best I could with my handkerchief which I tossed into the nearest doggie-poo station. Oh well, I didn't like that handkerchief anyway.
Back home by 9:00 pm, we had to add insult to injury by bathing him in the utility sink. After the bath, some tooth brushing, and a chewy treat, he seemed ready to tentatively trust me again.
As I finished my shower and headed for bed, my wife said, "Maybe it's a good thing you weren't carrying your gun." I wasn't yet ready to agree with her.