Throw Him a Bone

Throw Him a Bone

This morning on the way to the animal rescue mission where I volunteer a few times a week, I was (as I usually am on this ten-mile one-way ride) preparing for a sprint past the third of the three dogs I encounter each way. They’re nice dogs, meaning no harm—I know that now. Of course, I couldn’t have known they were nice the first time I encountered them; and even now, I use “nice” guardedly. They haven’t caught me yet, so I can’t be sure how nice they’d be if they had a chance to sink their jaws into my legs. They just don’t try that hard, not anymore, to make that happen.

Dogs are dangerous mainly because they distract us, skew our balance, send us careening into the other lane as we try to elude their snapping teeth, or actually do make dental contact. Experienced riders have an escape or avoidance plan hard-wired into their pedal strokes. Some brake, jump off the bike, and use the frame to shield themselves from the beast. Some have pepper spray on hand, squirting it at the advancing snout without breaking cadence. Others use a water bottle, a less stinging but, some say, an equally effective deterrent. Some riders scream at the dog, hoping to scare him off with the authority of a human voice, while others stop and try to befriend the animal. Since dogs can come out of anywhere, at any speed, at any time, it’s good to be ready with one or more of these methods of self-preservation.

The best way to be ready is to choose, if possible, a route you’ve taken before, knowing where the adversary lurks, picking up speed as you approach his territory, and mashing madly before he sees you. When he does, you have the satisfaction of feeling your superior power as he recedes in the distance. Allow yourself to gloat. You outraced a dog! Plus you got a bonus interval into your ride.

But obviously we can’t always choose the same route because we bike to different destinations, bike in new places, bike at different paces depending on weather, companions, mood, and so on.

Last year I decided to explore a no-outlet country road I had driven by hundreds of times. As I pedaled at about 18 mph, I kept my wits about me; a junkyard dog could leap at any time from behind that dilapidated shed or over that chain-link fence behind which I saw several monsters gnashing at the mesh in frustration. The chip-seal deteriorated as I wheeled toward the end of this increasingly backwoods byway. I sensed imminent attack. Yet nothing of the sort occurred. I reached the end, looked around, more at ease. No problem in. Out should be easy. So what if I had to contend with a stiff headwind?

I travel half a mile. See coming up on the left that low-slung house with the sagging porch, roof peeling. With the rusting cars and dented mailbox. With the litter strewn across the “lawn.” And hey, those people weren’t there when I came down this way twenty minutes ago. And that dog . . . is it? It is! Step on it!

What I remember most, aside from the pitbull coming at me at stunning speed and rending the air with a burst of I-shall-feast-on-you barks, is the sight of the owners on the porch, laughing uproariously as the interloper in the bright lycra (me) tried to elude, on a bicycle no less, their personal K-9 unit. Stopping to talk him down would have been insane—the brute would have chomped through the top tube to get to me. I guess his owners weren’t worried about the prospect of a lawsuit had the interloper been bitten, maimed, torn to shreds. Fear gave me speed. I escaped intact.

So I prefer the sprint. And yet this morning, safely past the three canine-restricted zones, I suddenly thought of a final solution to the perennial problem of grown-puppy predation. Working with dogs at the rescue mission, I have become more attuned to what these creatures, many of them hardened by abuse by owners or abandonment in the wild, where they fended for survival—I have become attuned to what these wonderful animals really want. Not a leg, not a top tube, but. . . .

A snack!

So be it. I offer, in this photograph, my recommendation for riders who, though aware of the dangers posed by dogs, have a soft spot for each and every one of them. Pack one or two biscuits in your jersey pocket or carry a box of them in your basket! Maybe you can even get that pitbull to eat out of your hand.

Roadysseus

11.10.14