A big part of my problem is that I don’t understand why people do the things they do.
I was walking my dogs across a meadow and I looked behind to see a large, tan vizsla running towards us. He was entire, so I called Poppy and Cydney to heel and put Cydney on the lead because she is also un-neutered.
The vizsla hurtled towards us, so as a precaution I scooped Cyd up into my arms. The vizsla then decided that if he couldn’t get to the bitch he’d hump the owner, in her nice tight Lycra leggings.
He threw himself at my back, wrapped himself around my legs and got to it. I screamed and looked behind me for the owner, who I expected to be running over to help. But the owner was 300 yards away sauntering through the meadow. Sauntering.
I shouted at her to come and get her dog and she called her dog with a pleasant, casual intonation: ‘Oscar! Come here!’
Half staggering, half crawling, I hung on to Cyd while poor Poppy stood and watched the churning of this obscene three-headed beast made out of her owner, her sister and another dog who had moulded himself to them.
I looked back at the owner and she was still sauntering. Sauntering. The ground she had covered was so little that by the time she managed to complete the distance between us I would just be a mauled, shagged pile of Lycra on the ground.
With hindsight, the thing to do was to run towards her. But when you’re being sexually assaulted by a randy Hungarian pointer you don’t always think clearly.
So I started running home with Cyd in my arms. And as I ran, the vizsla ran with me, leaping cheerfully on top of me every few steps so that I had to keep turning and flapping at him with a dog lead, all the while screaming at the owner to help.
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