Two Weeks Later

I will probably always hate Mondays. At some time around 1:15, there will be some sort of memory that surfaces. Reliving this ordeal over and over is driving me freaking crazy. But I’m making it through the day without full out weeping. I get misty when I read something touching, but now I don’t cry. One thought continues to come into my brain: Hardy didn’t deserve to die that way. He was a kind and friendly dog, and I socialized him well. All he saw coming was another butt to smell.

The other thought that rambles through my mind, like a pestilence, is how angry I am at the owner of the attack dog. That owner practically let a predator loose in our peaceful neighborhood. The man actually left on a business trip to Japan for two weeks without locking his gate. I swear. Someone must have been taking care of that dog. Yet it was loose to wander around and attack. What a freaking fool. Knowing that the dog had done this before. Talk about negligence. I want him to hurt. He should have to feel the pain I feel everyday.

If that were the case, he wouldn’t be able to work, eat, or sleep effectively. He would lose weight, and he would have to visit a therapist to help him get over the shock. He would see bloody, violent images over and over at random intervals throughout the day. A doctor would prescribe anxiety medication to help him cope. Something that he values most in the world, the first thing he would save if his house was on fire, would be stolen from him in a cruel and brutal ordeal. He wouldn’t be able to walk in his neighborhood without fear, in fact, he wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere without being afraid of something unknown ruining everything.

That happened to me yesterday. My family and I were taking Chico for a stroll. Like the assault route, it was a place that I’ve been too many times to count – but nowhere near my home neighborhood. It was my FIRST walk since the dog attack. We were simply walking our dog and some woman with a German Shepard mix passed us on our left. Her dog growled at Chico. I stopped, dead in my tracks, and I started whimpering. I think the dog just wanted to say hello to Chico, but it freaked me out. I didn’t want to move, and the rest of the way back I was choking back tears, images went rolling through my consciousness, and I had trouble moving my feet to walk. I was the woman who stepped up to fight a freaking killer pit bull. I miss her. She was brave.

It took me one day shy of two weeks to get up the courage to walk. I wasn’t even in my home neighborhood. There is the most beautiful trail near my home. It has a little stream that meanders for about a mile and a half. It has old oak trees, and wildlife. I used to call it the jigsaw puzzle because it was so beautiful to me. I’ve seen deer, coyote, quail, pheasant, wild turkeys, and even a kit fox while walking Hardy on that trail. We bought our house because of that trail. I want to go there again, but I can’t. When I’m at home, I’m afraid to walk passed the mailbox. Now all I want to do is be someplace else. I want to move.