Diary of an off-leash dog encounter, entry 15973
Diary of an off-leash dog encounter, entry 15973
First written on April 15th. Edited and published a little later.
Scout can recover from an off-leash dog rushing her in a matter of minutes nowadays. Seconds, sometimes. Her exact bounce-back window depends on what happened — if we’re able to safely hang in the environment so she can calm down afterward (common, shortest recovery), if the dog actually got all the way to her (rare, longer recovery), if they physically jumped on or tried to bite her (rarest, longest).
And how quickly I’m able to recover.
Here I spent all these years training my dog, trying to help her feel better about the world around her, hoping to build some optimism into her operating system. Here I am still struggling with those same things.
This morning, April 15th 2024, more than five years after I adopted Scout and at least three since I committed to handling off-leash dog encounters more productively, I swore at two women on the beach.
I still think they maybe deserved to be sworn at. I also still feel like shit (oh, there I go again) that I was the one to do the yelling.
We pulled into Cape Charles early in the morning. While waiting for a coffee shop to open, we decided to walk along the little beach. The tide was low. Dogs are allowed until 9 am. Morning light beckoned. Two women stopped just around the corner as we started down the path through the dunes, one holding a leash. Great! I thought. They see us and they’re getting their own dogs under control. Sean kept Scout in a heel on his far side, gave her a treat or two, and we made distance to pass without incident. (We basically pressed ourselves against a fishing pier for maximum space.)
We walked a few easy steps. I felt proud — I remember the days where seeing any dog, unleashed or not, would mean detouring back around. This sort of unspoken plan and seamless execution used to be barely in the realm of imagination. Look at us killing it.
Then I realized there were more dogs than we thought.
I’d assumed one or two, had drawn confidence from seeing the woman pause and reach for a leash, figured we’d exchange chipper “hello, have a good one”s and promptly forget each other’s’ existence in the rhythm of our own days. But there were five. One was now clipped up, four were running loose, and the biggest honed in on Scout. She isn’t friendly, I called out (that phrase used to be painful, brought up all sorts of uncomfortable associations, but I’ve learned to simply say whatever the moment needs).
The handler’s hurried recall attempt fell on deaf — distracted — ears.
I rushed to intercept the bear of a dog before he could reach my own, who was now growling under her breath next to Sean. The rest is hazy. A few frantic moments fighting this creature’s weight, worrying his loose collar would slip right off and then how would I hold him back in this state, hearing barking (Scout’s voice I recognized, the others mixed together), seeing Sean try to backtrack with her in my peripheral vision, stumbling over my breath as two more of the five started to charge forward.
At some point I told one of the women that Scout had been attacked before. I think she mumbled out a sorry. I said her dogs shouldn’t be off leash if she couldn’t recall them. I’m not sure she responded. In my memory she stands completely still. I can’t even see her face, just the loud lack of movement — a posture screaming to my adrenalized perception that she didn’t care. Why wasn’t she helping? Why was I always the only one who tried, dammit?
Finally it was over, at least the main act, three of the dogs dragged away on leashes and the other two ambling behind. I couldn’t relax until they were fully out of view. (I admit I am still not relaxed writing this an hour later.) But I was able to focus on Scout then, to see clearly her raised hackles and lowered posture. I chirped much too loudly “I’m so sorry those people were such assholes.” My tone was light (I think). To our heeler it read (I hope) as praise, our typical I-love-you-so-much-who’s-the-very-best-friend talk.
But I meant for the women to hear, too. And I followed it up with a second, more vehement, expression of my displeasure.
In that moment I wanted them to feel horrible. I wanted them to drive away dejected, tracing their mistake over and over. Bonus if it ruined their entire day — it was close to ruining mine.
Except that’s not what I want at all.
I love that these fellow owners were out with their companions early in the morning, romping along the beach, doing exactly the things we love sharing so much with Scout. I know being a jerk has never created the kind of change I want to make in the world. I thought, after all this effort to grow up and make myself proud, I’d never stoop so low again.
But it’s damn hard in the heat of the moment. I’m only human. For some reason that makes it difficult to remember that they’re only human too. We are magnificent creatures, us and our dogs, capable of such joy and connection — and such messiness.
Scout, for her part, was able to sniff beach debris with a relaxed tail just a minute after the fiasco. I was able to crouch down, let her burrow that soft head into me, and provide some affection with only moderately shaky hands. Sean asked me a few questions. I answered, apologized for not handling it better, remembered to practice the self awareness I am clearly still honing.
And we went for our beach stroll.
When we saw another off-leash dog up ahead, we left a little early. We watched from a safe distance for a moment to remind Scout (and me, mostly me, I think) that not every time we see a loose creature means we’ll be approached. On the walk back to the car we passed a dog on the sidewalk with no issue.
I’m thankful for those opportunities to reset so quickly. The worst part about off-leash dog encounters is often the lingering fear. I catastrophize that Scout will have regressed in her reactivity progress — I hesitate to put ourselves in a normal public situation again because what if it goes terribly wrong?
But we’re tough. Even when we’re idiots, even when I’m ashamed, even when I think to myself thank God no one has any video evidence of that temporary insanity, we’re more resilient than ever before.
I’m sorry those people were assholes, Scout. I’m sorrier I was one back.