A Good Fence Would Save a Stitch in Time, or Some Other Mixed Metaphor
Posted at 09:13AM - Comments: (34)
I share a fence, across the back of my lot, with a family who has three dogs. The dogs are out in the yard about 23 hours a day. They bark a lot, especially when people with dogs walk by their home. Their yard is littered with things the dogs have torn up, like an old mattress that started out on the back porch.
This evening, I let Otto into the backyard to go pee. I heard the usual volley of barking from the back fence as Otto strolled around my yard. I was actually turning to go back in my own house to get a glass of water when I heard an odd noise. I turned just in time to see an entire plank of the back (wooden) fence plunk to the ground in my yard, and the biggest of the three dogs, a black male pit-mix-type, charge into my yard toward Otto.
Well, I went berserk. In stocking feet (and a skirt, no less) I also charged into the yard, running down the back porch steps while yelling and grabbing things to throw at the dog. Initially, he glanced toward me but kept running toward Otto – who, by the way, alarmed by all my yelling and strange behavior, started running away from me. I don’t think he even saw the strange dog until it was right behind him, he was so afraid of my antics. I threw a trash can, a broom, and a pair of shoes, and was also able to turn on a hose and start spraying water toward the dog – just as the two smaller dogs also came through the fence. I kept yelling “GET OUT! NO! GET HOME!” and spraying all the dogs with water. Faced with this unexpected onslaught, the neighbor’s three dogs – thank God – turned and ran back through the fence. I ran behind them, spaying the hose to make them move far enough from the fallen fence plank that I felt confident in bending down to pick it up and jam it back up against the fence.
I then ran inside and grabbed a hammer and nails and ran back outside and nailed the plank back on. Only then did I look for Otto.
I found Otto quivering in the house . . . and spots of blood on the kitchen floor. I don’t know what happened, it all happened so fast. But he had a nasty laceration on his back leg. Did he get bitten? Or run into something in the yard in his panic to escape from his suddenly insane owner? I have no idea. Just a vet bill, a dog with a shaved butt and a few stitches (staples, actually), and a list of materials for a new fence.
Maybe I overreacted, but I’ve heard enough of the dogs frustrated barking (and then redirecting their frustration onto each other in short but intense-sounding fights) that I wasn’t going to take the chance that Otto get attacked by all three – or that I get attacked while trying to save him. All I know is that I certainly won’t take that fence for granted anymore. Ugh.