You know, it’s tough. We all just want to be liked. People just want to be themselves, without judgment. And yet despite all that, the word “hate” still exists. People are still bullied, picked on, and outcast. Some are even chased and sneezed on.
I have been chased and sneezed on.
By dogs. I have been chased and sneezed on, by dogs. On separate occasions, no less.
Actually, come to think of it, people have chased me and sneezed on me, too. I’m so blessed.
There’s nothing cuter than a dog with their owner. There, I had to get that out of the way so I don’t have dog owners jumping down my throat. Or worse, their dogs jumping down my throat.
I have nothing against dogs. They just hate me. They started it.
It all started when I was a little 4-year-old dumpling in a snowsuit that would make the Michelin Man jealous. You know how they say the camera adds ten pounds? Well, a snowsuit on a little kid adds about thirty.
I had put in my half day of Kindergarten and it was time to go home. My sweet Mommy came to school to pick up her miniature cinnamon roll.
I sat in the backseat even though I could’ve sworn I had called shotgun back at the school.
Anyways, we were just about to pull into our driveway and I saw it. A huge, angry, ready-to-feast dog coming out of the walkway next to my house. I looked in it’s eyes and saw something I don’t wish to see again.
This part, I’m not joking about.
I sensed something the moment I saw that dog. The car pulled into the garage. I got out of the car and raced to the front door. Something told me that I should hurry. My Mom finally caught up and put the key in the door. As she did, I turned around.
There it was. The dog from the walkway. It had run away from it’s owner and was looking to feast on me. Perhaps he heard that I was a little dumpling/cinnamon roll in a snowsuit. He was literally right on my posterior.
Then my Mom became my hero. Within 0.8 seconds, she unlocked the door, picked me up by the back of my snowsuit, and threw me in the house. She literally picked me up and threw me. I was airborne, y’all. Air-freakin’-borne.
The dog didn’t want her, it wanted me. I knew it as soon as I locked eyes with it when I was in the car. Finally, it’s owner caught up to it and took it off our property and away from the lunch special (me).
You know the saying: “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog”? That’s absolute hogwash. This dog had both the size, and the fight. And don’t tell me all he wanted to do was cuddle my chubby ankles and sniff my butt. You weren’t there, okay. You just weren’t there.
I need a moment…
That is one of my earliest memories. Isn’t it great?
Many years later when I was about 12-years-old (may have been a year or two younger), the same thing happened to me.
Déjà vu, I’m nervous like Pepé Le Pew.
Let’s set this up. My neighbour’s dog had three legs. It was born that way, pardon the song reference. I felt bad for it, who wouldn’t?
Anyways, I’m standing outside, next to the walkway beside my house. And then I see it. The three-legged dog was hobbling down the walkway as fast as it could. I locked eyes with it and knew it had bad intentions.
I took off. I Usain Bolted out of there so fast my feet could’ve fallen off. Did I run to the front door? No. I did that the last time and got held up because it was locked. I wasn’t risking that again.
That’s how people die in horror films, you know. They get to a locked door, turn around, shriek, and then the movie cuts to a scene of their funeral. Every. Single. Time.
I ran across the front lawn and headed toward the backyard. As I was running toward the backyard, I was looking behind me every three steps. My sister can verify this because she was watching from the window and still, to this day, re-enacts the entire thing.
I got in the backyard and shut the gate. I was safe. Except for the fact that there was a little hole under the fence. Big enough for a small dog to fit under. Thankfully, this wasn’t a small dog.
I say “thankfully” as if I’m glad it was a huge dog chasing me.
Did this dog want to cuddle my ankles and sniff my butt? I’m willing to bet that it did not.
Hold on to your fedoras, there’s a third dog incident. This one is less dramatic, but it’s still worth mentioning.
Almost every time I go to my best friend’s house, his dog sneezes on my feet. I don’t know if it’s a cultural thing with dogs, or not. Like do they want me to sneeze on their feet too? Is that how they greet people? I don’t know.
I don’t know why dogs do this to me. It’s like I’ve been blacklisted. As if they have a town hall meeting and talk about ways to raise my heart rate.
A part of me feels like I was a dog in a previous life; I can’t explain it. Maybe dogs can sense it and resent me for being a human. I don’t know. I can’t speak Doglish – the language spoken by 74% of all dogs. Fun fact, eh?
“That traitor turned in his four legs for two. Let’s have a three-legged dog chase after him to send a message.”
I can see it. I can totally see it.
Maybe one day dogs and I will come together, paw in hand, and call a truce. Until then, I have to watch my back.
I’m no longer a dumpling or cinnamon roll to them. To them, I’m a piece of steak. The expensive kind.
There are no bones about it, dogs just don’t like me.