Jack Russell Terror

On a hot summer day after running 6 or 7 miles, I turned up North Meadowcroft Avenue. It was a street with a good size hill, but I was ready for the challenge. Head down, arms pumping, my feet were like springboards as I raced up the hill. My tanktop, drenched with sweat, clung to my wet skin, and my legs burned from overuse and lack of oxygen.

Just ahead of me, a little Jack Russell Terrier tore down the street, barking its fool head off as he charged me like a miniature bull. I jumped off the sidewalk and into the street, and luckily not into oncoming traffic. The dog chased me, snapping his jaw only inches from my tender calves.

"Get your fucking dog away from me!" I yelled to anyone who could hear. I swerved through the street, running this way and that, like a drunk driver trying to evade a cop. An older couple, who until only moments ago, were enjoying a quiet, peaceful Sunday afternoon, jumped up from their wicker porch swing as fast as septuagenarians can jump, and watched with mouths agape as the torrent of obscenities flew out of my mouth. The dog’s owner shot out of her driveway to catch the crazy little terrier. Her pasty white, doughy legs looked like cottage cheese wrapped in cellophane as she ran down the street. Finally catching him and scooping him up, she tried to excuse his behavior with astonishment.

“He’s never done anything like this before!” I accepted her apology while the dog continued to growl at me. Thankfully she kept him in her arms, and off the ground, although I would have liked to kick the little beast into next week.

I can’t really complain too much, though. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t catch me, and if nothing else, he did help to knock a few seconds off my time.