The hairy cannonball

Many moons ago, prior to Waffle arriving, I used to have a different relationship with a different dog. In short, I would fight with an Alsatian on a regular basis.

I was running half marathons at the time and consequently, having 13-whatever miles perpetually on the horizon ensured that I was always out for training runs.

I was deep into it too. I used to subscribe to Runner’s World magazine and I had a veritable collection of running shoes under the bed.

I read an article once (probably in Runner’s World) and the intro went like this: How do you know you’re talking to a runner? They won’t shut up about running.

That was me.

ENTER THE DOG

The Alsatian in question – a big, wolfish beast of a hound – lived nearby and the first time I passed his house, merrily jogging away and listening to Pitbull (being unable to stop the party) on my headphones, he charged me and I went straight up the nearest tree.

Now, having grown up around a lot of dogs, I was more annoyed than afraid of the big wolf. However the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh times (and so on) that I passed the Alsatian’s house, I did not climb up the tree but instead, refused to back down. It actually turned into a running battle of sorts. I’d run past his house. He’d charge at me like a hairy cannonball, teeth bared and silent. I’d whack him with a stick and he’d slink away in pain or he’d be called back to the house.

Two things: I always had to have a stick in my hand when passing the house and also, it fair gets the adrenaline running when you’ve a slobbering wolf bearing down on you with murderous intent.

I am under no illusions: Were it not for the fact that I carried a stick, I would likely have had to climb that tree to escape. Because Mr Alsatian really went for me on those occasions and I would have to actually connect with my make-shift baseball bat in order to fend him off.

Strangely enough, in a way, I looked forward to our battles. They usually broke the monotony of a long run and also, adrenaline is a great stimulant. Of course, I wouldn’t be so blasé about things had the big dog ever managed to get his teeth into me.

I don’t know how many times we went to battle but the scenarios spanned months rather than weeks. And then, one day, he was no longer there and I carried the big stick past the house without molestation.

ENTER THE WAFFLE

Fast-forward several years and instead of squaring off against a hairy cannon ball, I am having to clear up after a hairy fool.

However, I am also aware that one man’s fun is another man’s phobia. Whilst I personally had no issue fencing with the Alsatian, others might not be too surefooted – even were they dealing with Waffle. Which is why I become so enraged when Waffle runs out onto the road to bark at a passing runner (or walker); it’s all very well and good me knowing that Waffle would rather lick a person to death; others are not always privy to this understanding.

Perhaps I am adversely conditioned by Waffe’s mild manners and persistent whining but I find myself thinking of that big Alsatian from time-to-time. He and I would have undoubtedly become friends if he’d only considered not trying to eat me.

I feel (and this likely says more about me than it does about Waffle) as though I’d have more respect for a dog which isn’t whinging his way through life and which might bite me on the bum if I became too complacent.

Just in case any of my weans are reading this, I wouldn’t trade Waffle for a lorry load of Alsatians.

Or would I?

Grrrr.