The door was open and my hands were full. I was walking out when they came in. It was the kid next door and she had her arms wrapped around her friend. She was looking at me. He was looking at nothing. I was looking at the blood.
“Can you help us?” she asked.
My hands were empty already.
It was a dog bite. The same neighborhood dog that attacked someone’s pet last week. The same neighborhood dog that killed a grown deer against the chain-link fence of the playground on the corner.
Or maybe it was the other one. There are two peas in this pod. They are pack mentality and they roam freely. Their pee is everywhere.
It had been an accident. It wasn’t an attack. It was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It doesn’t matter.
It is only a matter of time until it happens again.
They lick my children and bark at my mailman. They are tethered to rocks and they are happy to see me. I do not fear them. I do not hate them. I do not trust them.
My children, who have been around dogs their whole life, have been instructed that they are not to go near the two without an adult present. They are not to run when the dogs are loose. I encourage them to smell their toys before playing with them.
The dogs need more supervision and training. They need to be neutered.
People that worry themselves over the rocketing population of unwanted pets are only telling you part of the reason- the dead deer on the playground? That’s the rest of the equation.
Testosterone can make a guy do funny stuff, even bite the hand that feeds him. Apparently.
We cleaned his wounds and dressed them accordingly. He slept in our living room and she sat next to him, rubbing his feet between bites of pizza.
The dogs were in the distance, which was too close for me.