I live in the farmland of central Pa. After work I went for my usual run, but it is was hot and humid. It had rained an hour before, but now the sun was back, superheating the pavement, and the water from the rain was being converted back to steam, and I could literally feel it radiating up my legs as I ran. By mile 3 I was soaked in sweat, and almost staggering. I started to feel that hot face feelling you get when you are overheated that isn’t heat stroke, but is a warning that it’s on the way.
Being farmland, there is no shade on my route, just pavement, corn fields and dairy farms.
At mile 4 with 3 left I came upon one of these dairy farms. I’d been running by it for 12 years, and waved to the Mennonite family that works it. The dogs that live there used to bark at me as I went by, but after so many years, they and their successors have come to recognize me as a regular, harmless fixture in their life. Occasionally, I’d get a half-assed bark, but in today’s heat I saw nothing. I guess even the dogs were smart enough to be hiding from the heat.
I decided to take a chance. For the first time ever, I trespassed. I walked slowly to the cow watering trough, looking for signs of life. If I saw anybody, I would ask permission and apologize. If not, I would just commit my harmless, victimless crime and then leave.
Turning on the hose, I waited thirty seconds and then that 50 degree well water began to flow. I drank and drank and drank, and then soaked my head. I turned off the hose and turned around. It was then, I saw the three farm dogs.
There were about 10 feet away, looking very pissed. They had not barked, which I know is a bad sign. Barking is to call other dogs, or send a warning.
Silence is for hunting.
For those of you not familiar with farm dogs, let me tell you about them in general, and these in particular. Farm dogs, are generally territorial, cagey, and tough. They usually run loose, and their are roads near the farms, so stupid farm dogs have short lives ended by cars. The smart ones know their boundaries, respect them, and they expect you to respect theirs. They are good with their families and distrustful and hostile to strangers who have not been greeted with approval by a human from their household. There was a large yellowish older dog, the prototypical Old Yeller, a wiry border collie, and a smaller indeterminate mutt that seemed to represent nothing so much as a wild night of crapshooting at the canine gene pool (I stole that metaphor, but you’ll never figure out where.)
The dogs were sizing me up for vulnerable spots and apparently consulting with each other on the attack plan when I turned around noticed them. The dogs and I then had a silent conversation accomplished solely through facial expressions, stares, posture, and mild telepathy. If you’ve ever had such a conversation with a potential predator, you know what I am talking about. As silent and subtle as it was, it was nonetheless explicit. I will reproduce it now, verbatim, with no embellishments.
Old Yeller: “You motherfucker. We trusted you. We let you run by here every day, and we gave you a pass. We didn’t even bark at you. After all these years, I thought we had an understanding. And now… This is how you repay our trust and respect? You embarrass us in our own home? You take advantage and betray us? There is hell to pay.”
Border Collie: "You go right, I have your ass. If you go left, I have your ass. If you you to go over the fence behind you… I will literally have your balls. I think you should go for the fence. (To the other dogs) “Let’s force him to the fence.”
Mutt: “Fucking A!”
Me: “Respected Sirs, I realize that I have caused offense by my actions. It is only by by the most extraordinary and unusual circumstances that I have broken our understanding. Please know that I did so with the greatest reluctance. I assure that I remain the harmless and innocuous visitor that I have always been. I have committed no harm. I know you don’t owe me, but I wish you would let me ask one favor from you. Won’t you give me three steps? Give me three steps Mister. Give me three steps towards the road.”
Old Yeller: “That won’t be an option I’m afraid. The rules are quite clear and leave no room for interpretation.”
Me: “I see. I hesitated to mention this earlier, and do so now, only with the greatest reluctance. I feel it necessary to point out to you that I am no mere squirrel, neighboring dog, or roving woodchuck. I am, in fact, a human being. As such you should know that I have powers and athority and follow rules beyond your ability to comprehend.”
Old Yeller: “You are not one of OUR humans. You have not been granted athority by one of OUR humans. I am afraid that under article 6 section B, of the Human Canine Mutual Prosperity Pact first ratified in 10,416 BC, this actually relegates you as “Intruder, Hostile,”. Which as I am sure you are aware of is well below the ranking of squirrel, or lost livestock. Again, sorry. What happens next is going to hurt. Please stop delaying, and try to escape now, so we can begin.”
Me: “I’m sorry you feel this way. I had hoped we would come to an understanding. At this juncture, I wish to inform you that I have no intention of attempting to escape. I intend to leave, quietly, and without causing any harm, and I intend to do so under your supervision and with your approval.”
Old Yeller: “Interesting. We are not really seeing that as a viable option. Just out of curiosity, how do you propose to accomplish this?”
Me: “As a human being, you are no doubt aware that I have the power of tool use. It just so happens that I am carrying a tool. Let me shake this out, so you can recognize it.”
I open up the ASP baton that I always carry when I run. It telescopes out into 18 inches of steel with a hard ball at the end. I hold it low, not in attack mode, but ready.
Mutt: “Fuck! He’s got a Beater Stick!”
Border Collie: “That could be a problem.”
Old Yeller: “That does certainly escalate things. We were just going to chew you up a little bit and chase you off. You do know that if you it looks like there is any chance you are going to use that Beater Stick on one of our cows, or God forbid, one of our humans, this is going to turn lethal?”
Me: “I have no intention of doing either. I show the Beater Stick purely for informational purposes. I would use it only to defend myself from the chewing and chasing you seem intent upon persecuting onto me.”
Mutt: “He can’t get us all. We can take him.”
Border Collie: “Shut Up! It’s the boss’s call.”
Old Yeller: “Hmmm. A bit of a standoff then. Still, we can wait. We’ll wait you out.”
Me: “I have a counter proposal. I will move slowly towards the road in a harmless but alert manner, showing you the Beater Stick the whole time. When I get to the road, I will leave as I have always done in the past, and then we can put this unfortunate incident behind us.”
Old Yeller: “We accept your proposal. Be advised though that things have changed between us, an you no longer enjoy the privilege of bark free road passage to which you have become accustomed. We will be watching for you.”
Me: “Understood.”
And that was that.
