My neighbor’s dog bit my daughter. Of course, that meant war.
The dog terrorized us every chance it got. We could not check our mail. The kids couldn’t play outside in peace. Our own dog was even afraid of that ferocious beagle-mix. It chased my car with teeth bared every time I left my driveway.
One day, I had enough. I had tried all the reasonable methods to take care of the problem. Nothing reasonable worked. And this was war.
When I pulled out of my driveway this time, I saw the dog come running towards my car. I saw its bloodshot eyes and the slobber dangling from the growling mouth already poised to bite whatever got in its way.
It charged my car. I made a split-second decision. I decided to obey something I remembered from driver’s ed as a teenager. When an animal runs in front of you, only run off the road or hit your brakes if it is safe to do so. Well, it wasn’t. This war had to end. This dog was playing chicken with the wrong girl.
Let the record state, I did not accelerate. I did not swerve towards the animal. I did not, in any way, try to hit the dog. I simply didn’t try not to hit the dog.
I stopped my car and looked around. I got out and walked back to where the dog (the dog who bit my child) lay in the road.
A neighbor appeared out of no where.
What I thought: Ding, dong the witch is dead! The wicked witch, the wicked witch! Ding, dong the wicked witch is dead!
What I said: Oh dear! I think I broke its leg or something.
The neighbor looked at the dog, looked at me, and looked back at the dog as if considering if I were really that stupid. “That dog is about to take its last breath,” and as if on cue, the dog deflated.