Drinking Too Much and Fearing Too Little

Help needed from experienced dog owners

I watched the street lights flicker on as I was standing on security detail between the parking lot and the beach while my son took our little terrier down to the shore. Tearing around in circles she’s bold as a newly licensed teen doing donuts in a parking lot—kicking up white glistening sand with glee.

But one of us always has to watch for other dogs when we’re out, because somewhere in her pre-rescue history she was attacked by twelve-feet tall alien canine monsters with seven-inch incisors, or so you’d imagine based on her reaction to anything with a snout and a tail. She will bark at suitcases, scooters, small children and anything moving low to the ground until she gets close enough to rule them out as a member of her species. The trauma of her past unleashes a firestorm of terrier fury that obliterates any sense of her actual size. She will indiscriminately lunge at the throat of a doberman, pit bull, or rottweiler alike—saddling us with the conviction that she will one day get herself eaten by a creature of superior size if we let down our guard.

It’s why we go to the beach at night, because we can often make the trip without encountering another owner/dog pair. But tonight I had my eye on a man in the shadows who was ambling through the tall cedar trees between us and the street with the silhouette of a waist-high dog visibly on lead in front of him. Easily five times the size of our currently frolicking Trixie, they were far enough away that I wasn’t concerned. At that distance there was no risk of an encounter. Slowly, however, I noticed they were making their way in our direction.

We’re used to this, other dog owners being friendly human beings with their sociable creatures and regrettably having to inform them that we, unfortunately, are not. As the man and his regal, silver-haired shepherd mix emerged from dark cover onto the pathway and approached us, I issued the standard warning.

“Sorry, we have a reactive dog,” I said, in tones indicating we were the pet equivalent of toxic, high-voltage, sewage.

This is the point at which ordinary dog owners nod compassionately and appropriately carry on in another direction.

In this case, however, the owner in front of me bellowed, “Oh, reactive dogs are the BEST!” and without breaking stride walked past me, over the logs at the beach edge, and headed straight toward Trixie in the sand.

It was only after he’d passed me that I noticed he had a beer in one hand, and the leash in the other.

“Come over and say hi!” he commanded, headed right for my son who had nowhere to go.

Trixie responded as expected, rocket launching herself to the end of the leash and toppling backward as she reached its taut conclusion, spinning round in the sand to propel herself again at the heels of the sleek muscled hound, who was astonishingly unperturbed. I’d call its stance attentively curious, as if to say, what kind of organism might this be?

As I caught up from behind, the owner was now spewing dog-dharma.

“Ya gotta let ‘em work it out, ya know. We don’t speak dog. How do we know what they’re sayin’. They got their own way of meeting each other.” All the while giving more leash to his chiseled beast while tipping back the remaining dregs of his Budweiser at the same time.

Directly in front of my son was a confident, relaxed man with a beer who was grinning like he’d just introduced his two best friends. I stood tense and angry on the sidelines. My authority evaporated. Instead of following my lead, my son also let the leather run through his relinquishing grip.

Our Baskerville hound was cut loose. I coiled in fear, preparing to intervene. Dreading that I’d have to. Trixie lunged again, the shepherd stood her ground, tall and calm, and after six seconds of ragged barking, our dog stopped piercing the night with her warnings, snorted, and commenced a shockingly polite sniffing ritual with her new friend.

As the two dogs checked one another out, the man walked over to where we both stood agape and continued his lecture on biological relationships, how they have their own wisdom, methods of achieving balance, and the necessity of staying out of the way.

“We’re all gonna figur it out,” he slurred. And then reaching forward he gave my right shoulder a swift convincing shove. I recovered my balance into the cloud of his too close, yeasty breath. “If you and me got a problem, your son ain’t gonna get involved,” he laughed. “He’s gonna let us figur it out.”

The dogs were doing better than I was.

Part of me was saying, “This dude is dangerous, we need to get out of here.” Another part was registering that his acceptance, trust, and faith had given both the dogs and my son the confidence to allow a breakthrough for our terrier.

Even as he continued monologuing on his dog philosophy, I found myself arguing against an utterly laissez faire approach.

“But not all dog owners know their dog the way you do, or have the confidence to let it play out,” I argued.

He waved me off, seemingly not willing to buy the justification of my position.

Eventually the several long minutes of social labor reached a threshold with Trixie, struggling also perhaps to make sense of having survived an encounter with a monster. She yipped a few times, turned in circles, and then did something I’d never experienced in relation to another dog. She took refuge between my legs in search of safety.

My bearings were all askew, my previous beliefs thrown into question. I’d caged our beloved pet in a set of assumptions that were incorrect. It was my behavior as much as hers that had been bridling her freedom.

I looked back at the man who was now sauntering off in the other direction.

He was drunk.

But I was the one who was impaired.

My long-standing assumptions about the handicaps of our dog, her capacity to handle her own affairs, her character, and her future had clouded my judgment and prevented me from making the best decisions in challenging circumstances.

Where do we go from here I wondered? How could I let go of my limiting story about our dog and be a responsible owner in public at the same time?

For all you dog owners out there, what’s your take on this drama and the message from the inebriated dog doctor? What advice or life experience might you suggest we consider with Trixie? What essential lessons have you learned about the nature of canine relationships at the end of your lead?

And for all you assumption owners out there, what assumptions have kept you on the leash in your life? Which ones have served you well, and which ones might you cut loose so you can better co-exist with your own species?

Perhaps it’s time we sober up and work it out.