My husband was attacked by a dog tonight.
He's fine, mostly. He was walking home after an evening out, just strolling down the sidewalk when the dog at the end of the block went after him. He has a large and nasty bite on his thigh and his pants are destroyed. Not destroyed as in there's a little hole. Destroyed as in shredded.
He is freakishly calm about the whole thing. I am ready to go out there with a hammer.
This dog has always been territorial -- he's barked at us a million times. I'm not sure what happened -- did they just give him more room to run tonight? -- but he was able to get to the sidewalk and unleash his ire on that dangerous intruder, Elwood P. Gladly.
My kids walk by that house to get to and from school.
I can't stop thinking that the bite on Elwood's leg is at throat height for Stella. It's not, of course, as if she goes wandering the neighborhood alone, but she loves to get just a little bit ahead of me. I'm not going to let my brain go there right now.
The police offered to send someone out to take a report but Elwood said he'd prefer to call animal control in the morning. He says the owner was there and seemed unruffled by the whole incident. He offered to replace Elwood's pants. That's it.
So let us hope that animal control responds instantly and aggressively. I'll set aside my musings about vigilante justice while I wait to see what they say. Or at least I'll try.
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