Big Rant

 

I have hit some kind of wall about the aggressive off-lead dog problem, but I don't know what to do about it except stand here and bleed (from excessive head-banging).  I've written about this here frequently.  But we're either in a bad patch or it's getting worse.  I tweeted about this earlier today and there's been quite the little outburst in response.*

            I've been aware for a while now that more and more assho—irresponsible dog owners are using the lovely new footpath across the school grounds to let their drooling unrestrained maniacs—henceforth to be known as caniacs**—charge around and get into any trouble they can create.  The favourite caniac stratagem for mayhem is to find another dog to be belligerent at.  Most of them are no more than ugly bullies, which is quite bad enough, thank you very much.  Because you never know:  occasionally one seriously means it. ***   

            This hasn't happened to the hellhounds yet, but it's what I'm afraid of.   It does happen—Vikkik from the forum here tweeted about it happening to a friend of hers just this past weekend, to the tune of a £900 vet bill,† and several other twitterers have said similar.  Meanwhile I am having an increasingly lousy time on our twice-daily hurtles—and I think the same is true of Darkness, who is the thoughtful worrier.  That not all the world is his friend is even beginning to dawn on Chaos.

            Last night we were walking back to the mews across the school playing grounds toward Warlock Gate.  When you first come off the roadside pavement onto the footpath there's a sharp bend around the start of the school-grounds-bordering hedgerow.  You can't see what's coming at you till you get past the end of the hedgerow.  The second to last time we did this is when we were jumped by the monster Alsatian who turned out to be wearing a muzzle—when the owner's girlfriend thought it was hilarious that I was so freaked out.  Which I wrote about here.  Not only does this make her a first-class cow, it makes her a stupid cow—both hellhounds and I react to the body language of this thug long before any of us recognise the muzzle:  and do dogs understand that the Tyrannosaurus punching them with its chest has its teeth glued together?   

            We haven't been through Warlock Gate in a few days.  Then yesterday evening we went that way again.  Rounded the hedgerow corner . . . and ran smackdab into a couple of Norfolk terriers:  little and nasty.  Fortunately they wasted a second or two being surprised, and their owner dove for them.  We stopped while the owner got leads on them, but as soon as we started again, so did they, snarling and flinging themselves at the ends of their leads.  Now, granted, they may be the kind of grubby sods that make a show when they can't back it up—but in the first place terriers usually mean it, and in the second place the owner's dive looked pretty real.  Why were they off lead in the first place?  And, even if they will stay relatively near their human in open ground, why hadn't she put their leads on them before they reached that blind corner?

            So we stalked off down the footpath, I at least in no very good humour.  And we hadn't got fifty feet when I saw another off lead dog and its nincompoop of an owner.  This owner had one of those long flexible plastic arms that throw your tennis ball for you a lot farther than you can, and she was throwing the ball and the dog was fetching it.  Very cute.  I'm not in the mood.  There are dogs who prefer tennis balls to (terrorising) other dogs, but the odds are no better than even.  We turned around and began to skirt round the far side of the field (illegally, just by the way, although lots of people do it).  It's a big field.  Sometimes there are two different lots-of-running-with-balls team games†† going on at the same time.  Last night we had it to ourselves, the off lead dog, the nincompoop, the hellhounds and me.

            I saw the damn dog sprint past his ball toward us . . . and then change his mind and go back for the ball.  Okay, I thought, and breathed a sigh of relief, because the distance between us was now widening. . . . Hellhounds had fallen behind me, and the next thing I knew was a violent jerk on the lead and Chaos was turning around and snapping and snarling back at the caniac who had run the entire length of the field to have a go at us before he lost his chance.  CALL YOUR [un-family-friendly-blog language] DOG! I yelled—nincompoop didn't say or do a thing—I could just about see her in the twilight, wandering aimlessly along the far side of this very big field.

            I particularly don't like it that it was Chaos.  I was only saying the other night that gods help us if my guys start presenting as grown-ups:  one of the reasons we've avoided literal bloodshed so far is because Chaos in particular, who is always the one out in front, still presents as a puppy.  Darkness tends to hedge his bets, stay near me, and bark—and he's mostly sensible enough that if something comes up wagging its tail he relaxes.  He has moments when we've had too many run-ins like last night's when he doesn't trust anyone . . . and, um, once I picked him up because something the size of my hand came dashing up frantically whimpering and wagging its tail and Darkness was having his period or something . . . the little twit shouldn't have been off lead to come running up to other dogs, but I didn't want it scared—possibly into developing defensive aggression itself—either, and it's not like you have a lot of time to plan your strategy in these situations.†††

             That was last night.  This morning we drove out of town.   It's true that some of our paralytically scariest run-ins have been out in the empty countryside, but they don't happen often.  Today we met seven dogs, the first a group of five that we were coming up behind . . . and I couldn't deal with it.  We turned off and went in another direction.‡  And then circling back round, aiming for the gate into the churchyard, some assho—idiot talking on her mobile phone was flinging open the opposite gate from the road without paying any attention, and two great big male Labs came striding purposefully in, saw hellhounds, instantly put their heads, tails, and hair all up and started trotting toward us in the immediately recognisable caniac manner . . . and we made it through the churchyard gate quick as a cat climbing a tree.  Fortunately we had a gate.  GAAAAAH.

             As I've said before, the authorities do not give a damn.  But I'm not the only person this is happening to—I wonder what a few letters to local papers might do to stir up a bit of community feeling?

 * * *

* Which seems to have cost me about 20 followers in a rush.  Ha.  Not dog lovers, then?^ 

^ Just so long as they're not among the dog-owning halfwits I imprecate here.+ 

+ The other possibility is that they're the people who Know What YA Fantasy Is and have dropped me pointedly after last night's blog.  

** I don't care that the Latin is mangled and the coinage fraudulent.  Fooling around with language frequently leads one down paths of unrighteousness.  I like paths of unrighteousness.  The scenery is spectacular. 

*** Most of these do no more than give the odd unaccompanied two-leg a virulent glare—although gods help you if you look back.  Yes, I frelling know that aggressive dogs think that meeting their gaze is a hostile act.  What the hell are dogs like this doing off lead??  And I find it very difficult not to look at something bearing down on me with all its teeth out and its hair standing on end.  Yes, I know to look to one side.  I am looking to one side while recalling that really useful advice to not be frightened because dogs can smell fear.  I had one particularly memorable encounter, during my pre-hellhound post-previous-generation dog-free phase, with some kind of hippo-sized Rottie cross whose owner said that he was a rescue dog and that being off lead built his confidence.  WTF?!?!?  Confidence is not what I'd call it.  Except mine, which is being dranglefabbing destroyed.  

† Yes, the dog is recovering.  Maybe if we ask her nicely she'll tell us more on the not-restricted-to-140-characters forum. 

†† Which ones?  I have no idea which ones.  I can (probably) recognise baseball and cricket because of the specialist kit.  The rest is just running around with balls.  I could (probably) recognise American football, but they don't seem to play it over here.

††† Oof.  (Darkness weighs about five pounds more than Chaos, and Chaos weighs enough.)  But it worked pretty well.  He was very embarrassed.  Know Thy Hellhound.  Picking up Chaos would only be picking up Chaos:  he doesn't do embarrassed.  

‡ I then wasted perfectly good plotting time figuring out which way we were going to go, since our best connecting field is presently full of abominable cows.