I thought I was going to get bitten this morning
I thought I was going to get bitten this morning
On having our dogs under control in shared public spaces
This morning we went on a short sunrise walk. We’ve seen the Tetons glow twice now and wanted to glimpse the rays on the other side of the mountain.
Dogs are allowed under voice control in the Bridger-Teton National Forest, but we brought Scout’s slip to leash up whenever we passed an occupied site. We didn’t think we’d use it much—yesterday almost every spot was empty except ours—but cars poured in overnight. She wore it nearly the entire time.
After the sunrise show (spectacular, by the way) we headed home—and then it happened. Fast. A low growling behind bushes, a huge brown body barreling toward us, a chorus of deep barks as not one but two dogs launched themselves from the nearest campsite and into the road, focusing on Scout.
Every off-leash dog encounter used to be super stressful. As we’ve grown, they’re often no big deal. Sean, Scout, and I have developed a solid protocol. (We’re fortunate to have two handlers the majority of the time; it makes this easier, and that privilege is not lost on me.)
One of us hangs back with Scout—usually Sean, because he has the better calm demeanor—while the other quietly intercepts the oncoming dog. The vast majority of these situations are benign. Truly social or simply curious dogs want to come say hi. I step forward to greet them, and as I do I surreptitiously grab their collar to keep them from darting behind me at Scout. Generally the handler comes to get their dog or I’m able to point the pup back and communicate via body pressure that we’re done interacting. This approach is ideal: 1) Scout sees me interacting with strange dogs without incident (a good opportunity for observational learning), and 2) I advocate for her space without escalating.
Hell, I did exactly this three days ago on our first afternoon at Shadow Mountain. No adrenaline. Nothing but a few involuntary hackles from my heeler. None of us held onto the incident for more than a minute.
But it’s only that simple if the dog doesn’t mean any harm.
It’s possible, of course, my memory is already fuzzy from the intensity of today’s encounter. Maybe a bite wasn’t as imminent as it felt. I don’t know; even if I could relive the moment to tell you for sure, I wouldn’t. What I do know is that while one of the dogs hung back, simply sounding the alarm, the other charged with raised hackles and tensed forward posture, growling all the while.
It was the first time in ages—one of the only times total—I’ve been truly afraid of an unfamiliar canine. Years ago in our Florida neighborhood a mutt with similar body language rushed out his front door as we walked by. His owner fully tackled him to the ground a second before he reached us. This felt like that, except there was no other human in sight.
It’s a blur, mostly. I stood my ground and side stepped whenever the creature made to move by me. Sean backed away with Scout. I think I called for the dogs’ owners (or maybe it was just in my head). Eventually I could breathe again—my sweet cattle dog was out of view, far enough away danger no longer seemed imminent—and I backed away myself.
I found my little family waiting for me beyond two curves in the road. Scout tossed her puller ring in the air when I approached; I could have cried that she’s internalized my play is the way to relieve stress lesson so deeply. We tugged for a minute. We stood overlooking the sun’s early light in the valley below. We went home.
We’re fine.
But what happened is not.
This is not a post about how “aggressive” dogs shouldn’t be in public. I don’t believe that for a second. Expecting every canine to be indiscriminately friendly is a silly modern construct—and we were walking on the road near these dogs’ otherwise quiet campsite. That’s a natural situation for territoriality!
This is a post about how handlers—regardless of our pets’ individual temperaments and baseline responses to various stimuli—have a responsibility to control our dogs (or if the term “control” grinds your gears, a fair reaction depending on your connotations in the training space, to guide them into socially appropriate behaviors) in shared spaces. That’s how we keep areas pet friendly. That’s how we coexist in harmony.
If it comes down to it, if a bite is inevitable, I’d always rather take it than Scout. I'd recover better. But obviously I just want to live in the world where that isn’t even a consideration. We have a right to reasonable safety in shared public spaces (provided we ourselves make reasonable decisions; looking at you, weirdos who try to pet bison in Yellowstone).
The risk of these occasional unsavory encounters pales in comparison to the joy we experience living on the road. But I hate that it lives in the back of my mind at all.