THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, July 14, 1994 TAG: 9407130166
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 26 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Mike Kernels
LENGTH: Long : 111 lines
TRUST ME on this one: Dogs are not man's best friend. At least when you're on a bike.
Or anything else that moves for that matter.
What is it about dogs that makes them want to chase moving objects? Cars. Inline skaters. School buses. Trains (Cue up the theme from ``Petticoat Junction'').
I wish I knew. You see, I've got this uncanny problem with a canine.
He wants a piece of me - and not in the figurative sense.
On a bike route that goes through the back woods of Suffolk and Isle of Wight County - or really, anytime you venture out into the hinterlands - you can count on being chased by a dog. Kind of like dropping in on unexpectedly on an old friend that wants to bite you.
But country dogs are the worst. You never have these problems with dogs in the city because they have cable. Besides, it's not like country dogs have anything to do, anyway. They plan their day around people like me.
DOG ONE: Psst. (Nudges dog lying next to him with snout). Wake up. C'mon, get up.
DOG TWO: (Yawn). (Rubs his eyes). Huh? Whazzat? Is it time already?
DOG ONE: Yeah (a drop of saliva falling from his lips).
Cyclist/soon-to-be victim is a small dot on the end of a country road that's not terribly well paved.
DOG TWO: Darn it. Just when I was starting to get some good z's. (Looks at sun). He's late today. If he makes me miss today's episode of ``Barney'' I'll --.
DOG ONE: Tell your fleas to chill out. We've got to take what we can get out here. It's not like back in the old days where we used to terrorize the the Hare Krishnas, Girl Scouts and that old milk man.
DOG TWO: Remember the Mormon missionary we chased down a man hole?
In a cloud of dust, they jet off.
Most of the time, I don't have any problems. I cruise past them. They chase. They bark. I bark back. End of story.
There's Bubba, a greyhound who patrols Indian Trail in search of strangers to lick.
There's Tiny, a St. Bernard who keeps an eternal vigil on his owner's porch on Lake Prince.
And then there are the ones who act like Cujo.
That's my problem canine, a German shepherd that knows ruff, whoof and blitzkrieg.
His is the only house on a road that is surrounded by open fields. It's a half a mile down on the left.
I usually round the corner of that road at 6 p.m. At 5:57 p.m., he's waiting in the driveway.
Every day, I try to shoot past him hoping this time won't be the one where this Wile E. Coyote catches his Road Runner. Suffolk has never seen spandex move like mine: head down, legs pumping, wind whooshing past me.
I'm not kidding. This dog is faster than most Pintos, Hyundais and on a good day, Yugos.
At first, he takes off running parallel with my bike. In seconds, he matches its speed. Then he moves in for the kill.
I break out into a cold sweat and hope - ok, pray - those Colgate-white teeth, gums flapping in the wind, saliva streaming off his lips, BAAARKS bellowing in the hot air don't find one of my chicken legs.
Geez, you don't how many times he's come oh, so close. I've found religion on some of those rides.
It's not like I haven't tried to make peace with him.
I've sweet talked him. He snapped back. Literally.
I've extended my hand. He bit me.
I've given him food - like a banana across the head.
And I tried other things: pepper gas, rocks, a rubber hose, milk bones, sign language, a high frequency dog whistle, harsh language.
Nada. Zip. Nothing.
So speed has been my friend.
But then the unthinkable happened recently - a flat tire. Only feet away from his house.
I panicked. All that speed I had built up disappeared like a chalk mark in a rainstorm as my bike and its flat front tire thumped to a stop.
Thumpthumpthumpthump. Thumpthumpthump. Thumpthump. Thump.
Gulp.
Then the unthinkable happened again. He stopped. Looked at me while still on all fours. And came trotting over, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.
Hmm. That was something I hadn't thought of. What have we going on here - a pooch with a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde complex?
Slowly, tentatively, definitely against my better judgment I - yikes - stuck my hand out. I still remember trying not to be scared as the dog sniffed the fingertips of the sweaty glove that covered my right hand.
Then he sat down and started to pant. My glove gently rolled over his fur and then I knew we were friends.
With me finally being able to look at him in a single frame rather than a black blur, I saw just how neglected my new-found friend was.
Judging by his coarse fur, I thought to myself as I kneeled down for a better view, this dog hasn't had a bath in at least a year.
His eyes had gunk around the edges which he unflinchingly let me wipe away.
Fleas and two ticks had taken up residence. I gave the ticks their eviction notices.
Protruding ribs were evidence of malnutrition.
I pulled him close to me and petted him for the next half hour as we sat there on a gravel road that was still warm from the day's heat, near a house out in the middle of nowhere whose owners apparently didn't care about the well-being of their animal.
I wish I could have stayed. Or taken him away.
I never ran away from that dog again. He stopped chasing me.
Every time I go by his house, I stop to see him, sometimes bringing him an occasional treat.
And, I try to be a dog's best friend. by CNB