Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Cleveland Marathon

The Cleveland Marathon was conducted a couple weeks ago along with other races of various distances. A number of streets and highways were closed for the runners and their support personnel.

To be frank, I think that those runners who have the wherewithal to train and run 26.2 miles or 13.1 miles or 10 kilometers or 5 kilometers or whatever distance they run short of the finish line because the runners pulled up lame with pulled muscles, muscle cramps, dehydration, blisters, lacerations, skin irritations, heat stroke, bending over vomiting on the side of the road, among other things, are insane to be commended.

Among the support personnel were spectators on the sides of the roadways, many of them family of the runners, many of them planted by race organizers, who encourage the runners, yelling, "Go, go, go, Honey!" and "Run loose!" and "4:55, baby, good pace, you're good!" and "Pay your fucking child support, you loser!"

I had a particular problem with one of the people who came to see the runners. I know that he wasn't from the neighborhood because, just like in any neighborhood, people become familiar to each other, especially, because I walk my dogs several times a day and night, people with dogs become well known to each other, whether or not their dogs tend to socialize.

I took the dogs out for a short walk, their mid-day, 25-minute cruise around the neighborhood. Sheba was squatting, Bella was sitting observing all that was going on around us, and Beagle Scout was sniffing around, taking in all the odors undetectable by humans, but enjoyed by Beagles, when I noticed that coming towards us was a strange human -- strange as in stranger, rather than as in odd -- and a strange dog, a Boston Terrier. And the human male, rather thick, 60-ish- looking, held the little black-and-white dog with a gray sweater on a retractable, but unretracted leash. Retractable leashes, in my opinion, should be outlawed for dog-walking in the city because it is rare that the human knows how to work the retractable leash and lets the dog wander around at the end of the leash 20 feet away and has no control over the dog.

Now, Scout is the dog that is alert for threats to the pack and serves as the lookout. She may be pre-occupied with smelling every square inch of the downtown neighborhood, but she is always aware of others, particularly, dogs, who are approaching and may invade the pack's territory. She spotted or smelled the Boston Terrier and alerted the others by howling. I immediately told her to shut her fucking yap calm down. She did. Bella stiffened. Sheba continued to squat.

As an aside here, when dealing with strangers, I hold to the theory that I don't know who I'm dealing with; therefore, I am better off staying out of the strangers' business and being polite and respectful. And that philosophy applies to meeting strange dogs, too. One never knows what kind of person or dog one is encountering, especially in that other person's or dog's territory.

Before I go further in this narrative, I must explain something; or you may not understand the story. There is something, some characteristic, some look about Boston Terriers that causes my dogs to loathe them -- loathe is not a strong enough word to describe the uncontrollable bloodlust Bella possesses for this particular breed of dog. She once attacked a concrete Boston Terrier statue, among all the other breeds represented in the garden area outside of the groomer's building, by running toward it and grabbing the concrete head in her mouth, breaking the statue's four legs and knocking the thing to the ground, whereupon she turned to me with a puzzled look on her Boxer face, as if to ask me why her teeth did not do their jobs as designed.

The thick, 60-ish-looking stranger with his strange Boston Terrier approached; and as he and his dog came too close for my comfort, he, meaning the thick, 60-ish-looking stranger, said to Scout, who had howled upon the approach of the strangers, in an unmistakably sarcastic tone, "Yeah, you're ferocious."

The fur down the middle of Scout's back raised into a ridge; a low menacing growl arose from deep inside Bella; and Sheba, not one to become involved with other dogs, having finished her business, rose with a menacing stare. They knew sarcasm when they heard it, and they were not pleased with the strangers. The Boston Terrier's bug eyes were even more bug-eyed than before its master's voice spoke --the little dog, already humiliated by being made to wear a sweater, knew the extreme danger created by its master's voice.

And it would not have been pretty. No, the thick, 60-ish-looking stranger would have been sorry for disrespecting the Beagle Scout, returning to wherever he originated on this bright, sunny day, trying to explain to his wife or son or daughter why he returned without their little Boston Terrier, trying to explain just how violent and horrifying the downtown area was, conveniently leaving out his own culpability in the matter, and wondering if he would be able to wash blood from his hands, the dog collateral damage in the attack.

But that did not happen. Despite the feelings rising within them over the serious insult dealt by a stupid human, the three dogs did as I asked and did not attack him.

Now, his Boston Terrier knows its human's true colors; and the man better watch his back.

Posted by Bill at May 31, 2010 09:35 PM