I got into a fight today. It's not like I didn't see it coming. I knew, someday, it would come down to this. The cool thing is, I was the victor in the match. Growing up, I didn't have the occasion to fight much, thankfully.
The first fist fight I remember was when I was six or seven years old. It was with a smaller, younger brother of some kid in the neighborhood we didn't hang out with much. My older brothers pushed his older brother, trying to make him smell dog crap. He wasn't interested in smelling poop, so he told the younger brother to "kick [my] ass" instead. And he did. I was an untrained, unskilled, uninterested target. I just let the boy punch and kick me until I started crying and ran home--my second mistake.
My dad was not too pleased that his son got beat up by a younger neighborhood kid. Instead of being the dad that is typically seen in the movies and on TV--the one who goes and gets his old, worn out boxing gloves, and begins a series of lessons on how to fight. The one who, when he's not looking, gets hit, square in the nose by me, the now fully trained boxer--my dad continued what the boy didn't get to finish.
Then there was the time in sixth grade when Tony James called me a "jew-boy" and in response to his verbal jab, I grabbed his banana, broke it in half and said, "you see this?" and threw it on the ground.
Today was different. I was defending one of my family members. I was trying to protect him from what was escalating into a serious situation. It all happened so fast, yet my "parental" instincts seem to just take over. I was actually surprised and pleased by my quick reaction. It started and was over so fast, that I wasn't sure it really happened. But it did.
Here's what happened:
I had about an hour to kill before I had to leave for an interview at my church. I am applying for an open position on our Pastoral Council. I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood, and since Cyndi and the kids were not interested in joining me, I took Rex, our dog.
Rex is a good walker. Cyndi was very vigilant when we first got him and studied "The Dog Whisperer's" techniques and suggestions. Rex even contains himself when approached by other animals. It's a treat, and taking a walk through the neighborhood with Rex is a simple, and enjoyable, task.
There's this 1.5 mile loop we like to take, so I decided that would be our route. I updated my iPod with the latest "This American Life," grabbed a plastic poop bag, and set off.
About a mile into our walk, we approached a house I am not too fond of. The house has a low chain link fence, and a jumpy dog that attempts to get over the fence each time we pass. Usually, we clear the area before the dog can figure out how to get over to us, but this time, he easily got his back paws secured enough to get him over. And quickly.
The dog lunged at Rex with his mouth, making him yelp in pain or in fright. I began shouting at the dog to back off, as I tried pulling Rex closer to me. The dog wasn't listening.
So, I kicked it. Nothing happened. And then I kicked it again. The second kick seemed to be the one that knocked some sense into its tiny brain. It backed off, noticed two other dogs further up the street and high tailed it toward them, causing additional chaos. It didn't feel good, kicking the dog. I actually felt guilty. But he was harming my dog. I had to protect him.
I guess this was less of a fight as it was an exercise in animal aggression. Either way, I felt good and bad. Good that I was able to protect my dog from additional injury and stress. Bad because my first victory came at the hands (or feet) of a canine.
No comments:
Post a Comment