My ankles got savaged yesterday while I was running up and down the steps on the bluffs by Goose Spit. Not by geese. (Admit it, you and I have always suspected the geese.) No, on my fourth trip up a tiny bundle of fangs and bacteria shot out of no where and began to digest huge chunks of my runners and flesh.
As a large-breed dog owner, I can tell you that nothing terrifies me more than small dogs. This one was no exception. I tried to ignore it and run on but the little piranha wouldn't let up. I was forced to finish the final climb at top speed in an effort to out run needle sharp death.
As I stood on the top stair, my chest heaving, my running shoes slowly being devoured by the Chihuahua from Hell, I asked myself "What would Buddha do?" I hoped it would include swearing.
It was then that the owner of this monster stepped out of the bushes and yelled at me to stop chasing her dog, who was old and shouldn't be running. What sort of person was I to force an old dog to run up so many steps over and over? Honestly, was I heartless?
I explained to her that the only things I lacked were a pound or so of my living flesh and the willpower to refrain from kicking her dog into the Straight.
She said a rude word. We didn't part as friends.
Is there some sort of organization behind this or do I just give off a pheromone? Jeezus.
The worst part of the whole episode is having to admit the little bastard gave me one hell of a workout. I hope he's there tomorrow.
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