The Legend of Dirt Dog

 

There comes a defining moment in every person’s life where you either face your fear and stand strong….or you flee.

Me?  I ran like hell everyday for two long years!

Flashback to 1984 and my days as a “pseudo-student” at The Ohio State University.  I call myself a “pseudo-student” as dictated by my scholarly 2.3 GPA.  Yes, I was an honorary member of the DSC fraternity (Didja Skippa Classa?)

My two roommates and I shared a dingy, upstairs apartment that was so far from campus–it was on the edge of civilization.

To find our place, you had to walk down a dark, decrepit alley; careful to avoid the abandoned shopping cart used by dumpster-jumpers to collect cans.

To find our place, you had to pass the alley gate-keeper; a fanged, rabid creature of viciousness…of snarls & slobber…of mud-caked camouflage.

To find our place, you had to survive…the legend of Dirt Dog.

 

We never knew its real name.  It was just a dirty, brown dog who lived in a backyard of dirt.  So, it became known as “Dirt Dog.”

And Dirt Dog was mean.  Crazy mean.  Michael Vick’s dogs were like a Zsa Zsa Gabor lapdog when compared to our feisty neighbor!

Seeing us turn the corner to our alley, Dirt Dog would launch itself at us, teeth glaring, jaws snapping, toe nails digging into the dirt beneath its bear-sized claws.  The only thing saving us from an assful of canines was a heavy tow-chain around Dirt Dog’s thick neck.

Most days Dirt Dog was on his super-strong chain.  I say most, because on several occasions, Dirt Dog was loose–and he gave chase!

Not sure if it was adrenalin surging through my body…or warm urine running down my leg–whatever it was, I was at a dead sprint in two steps and flying towards the fire escape which led to our apartment.  The hard-charging Dirt Dog reminded me of the Tasmanian Devil from an old Warner Brothers cartoon…he ran wild, spinning and growling.  My only form of protection was a Members Only jacket that I flailed like a surrender flag of bad fashion.

I leaped to my fire escape and rambled up three steps at a time as Dirt Dog reluctantly retreated back to his dirt den to wait for its next victim—probably one of my roommates!

For all I know Dirt Dog is still lurking in the dirt confines of its mud hut.  The image of that angry beast still roams in the back of my mind reminding me that one never foresees the challenges hidden behind every turn in life.

Chomp.

Lesson learned from the mangy Dirt Dog.