I walked to town with Ava as usual this morning. We were crossing the street to the post office when out of the blue, another dog pelts straight at her and launches itself against her side, biting at her flank and legs.
This monster-wannabe is only about 15 pounds of dirty gray fluff, so the biggest danger here, other than infected puncture wounds, is that Ava will turn and snap the rotten beast’s neck.
To her credit, Ava — who has a history of reacting sharply to other dogs — keeps her cool.
Me, not so much. I’m cussing and angling to get a clear kick at the mini-Cujo when it suddenly backs off.
Its owner is in a parking lot a few yards away, having just exited her car and released her hellhound on the public.
“Jesus Christ!” I say. Or something like that.
“I know,” the woman says with no sign of apology. “She’s a little shit.”
“Why don’t you have her on leash?”
“She’s a rescue and I don’t know what happened to her before I got her,” the idiot replies non-sequiturially.
I’m speechless. Ava is a rescue and I do know what happened to her before I got her: she was put on a 10-day police hold after biting a three-year-old in the face and only survived because the child’s mother belatedly realized it was her own fault for leaving her toddler alone to try to drag poor Ava into a dark closet.
Which is one of many reasons Ava is never, ever, ever off leash if we’re going to be in civilization. Even though it’s been 11 years since she munched on that kid.
You know how many rescues I’ve fostered and adopted out over the years. I’ve been around rescues and rescuers for 30 years. And I have never seen “she’s a shit” and “she’s a rescue” as an excuse for allowing a known-vicious animal to run free in the street.
“You need to keep her on leash. Please,” I say to the woman’s back as she steps through the employee entrance of a nearby store, taking Fluffzilla with her.
I was shaking. Still am a bit. First with the shock of the attack. Then with rage and disbelief at the idiot bimbo.
We were only a block from the police station at the time and I even considered reporting her — something I wouldn’t normally do and didn’t do. Then I had ignoble thoughts like keying the stupid broad’s car. Which I also wouldn’t do, though it felt good for a moment to think thoughts on her own immature, irresponsible level. But I probably will email my local rescue friends to see if they placed that monster child and if someone from the rescue is willing to talk with the bitch. And when I say bitch, I of course do not mean the female dog, who is just a victim of circumstances despite her foul temper.