I survived a "dog attack"

And lived to write about it.

Jan 17, 2025

It's true. I survived a dog attack.

I realize how clickbaity that reads. And I'm sorry for that.

So many unanswered questions in your mind!

Was I in real peril? Or was I the one doing the attacking? And then had to endure the shame that came with the sad dog owner's gaze?

And the dog in question could be either my dog or another dog. Or many dogs. These things happen.

As the saying goes, "Nothing tears a family apart like a pack of wild dogs."

I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.

Penny, named because she’s the color of a penny.

I take Penny, our four-year-old Irish Terrier, for a walk almost every morning. It’s in the Dad job description. I have to do it.

My oldest daughter has "zero period" biology at the high school, which starts at 7:10 AM, so weekday walks are short and to the point. Walk, poop, get home.

But on weekends, I'll take the leisurely long loop about town, sipping on an $8 latte like a Brooklynite bon vivant.

We occasionally run into other dogs. Irish Terriers present as very friendly, curious, and only weigh about 30 pounds, so they’re not particularly threatening.

But other dogs' owners always ask:

"Is she friendly?"

"Yes, she's friendly, but she likes to pounce. And if your dog doesn't like that, she'll bark."

"Oh, that's okay."

Penny pounces, and their dog seizes up.

And when Penny feels the recoil, she performs what I call a "murder-bark."

It’s the kind of bark that scares children and causes old ladies to come the front window. It sounds like a threat of canine murder.

And as another shunned dog and owner couple cowers away, I scold Penny, as if she can understand, “Be cool! No one likes that.”

This particular early Sunday morning, I'm cutting through an empty Wendy's parking lot, head lost in a podcast, when I hear a man cry out from 30 feet to the left, just out of my periphery…

“WYATT, NO!”

I turn to see a man leaning out of the open passenger side door of his car, parked in the back corner of the parking lot.

And charging toward us is his giant white snarling bulldog.

“Wyatt!”

I tense up.

“No!”

With one hand I reach up to take out one of my AirPods. With the other, I wrap Penny's leash tighter, bracing for impact.

“Wyatt! No! No!”

This isn’t Wyatt but he’s still a guh boy

There’s one problem.

Wyatt is overweight.

He takes a full 14 seconds to get to us.

He’s a slow-motion tornado of saliva.

He’s like the steamroller in Austin Powers. Full of motion but no momentum.

And when he did arrive, he snarled (“murder-snarled”?), but just chased Penny in a circle around me twice. I didn’t even spill my oat milk with a splash of coffee.

This was the attack I survived.

Here's the thing though.

Wyatt's owner got to us, and collapsed onto his dog.

He was SO UPSET. Bawling.

Inconsolable.

Wouldn't look me in the face.

I tried to check on him, to see if he was alright. But he wouldn't turn to me.

I didn't know what to do! I had never been in a situation like that.

It would be easy to assume that this man was living in his car, on the edge, and this dog was his safety blanket.

It could be either reductive or accurate (or both!) to think that this man feels out of control too — like when dogs and owners start to resemble each other? Maybe he's lost, but trying to not run away?

Honestly, I don't know.

It was a massive overreaction to a “no big deal” moment.

Ira Glass’ oft-quoted advice for storytellers is to not simply share the events of a memorable moment, but to go deeper into what is happening, internally.

That particular moment, I was thinking about how I don't really understand God, but want to, though I fear the idea of surrendering. I know, logically, from years of study and conversation that God cares for me and wants the best for me.

But have been struggling to FEEL that reality. That was what I was pondering that morning.

I want to tie up that dog “attack” and a fear of being “out of control” with God together in a nice little bow, but I can't.

Maybe I’m Wyatt.

Maybe I’m the man.

Maybe I’m Wendy.

Who knows.

Maybe one of you has an idea.

Or maybe some things don’t need a perfect life lesson.

It’s just a moment.

I can be thankful I'm not that man.

And that we didn't get (actually) attacked by a dog.

Sorry for tricking you into thinking I was.

Here’s one more photo of Penny to distract you.

I survived a "dog attack"

And lived to write about it.

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