Attack of the Pit Bulls

Yesterday, I almost had my balls chewed off by a pit bull named “Chief.”

It’s true.

I was attacked by three pit bulls this past weekend.  Here’s the story of how a leisurely run through the mountains of northern San Diego County turned into a brief moment of terror.

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Ever had one of those “HOLY SHIT!  WHAT DO I DO NOW?” moments?

I just had one.

Make that three.  As in three pit bulls.

It all happened Saturday morning.  A casual three-mile run concluded with an unexpected “bonus sprint” towards the end, when I was confronted by three gnarling, foaming-at-the-mouth, canine beasts.

First, the back story.  I’m currently staying at the Harrah’s Rincon Resort and Casino, which is located in the mountains just north of San Diego.  This is Indian land situated about halfway between Temecula and Escondido.  Unless you drive 20 miles due east off the I-15, you’d never know there’s this vast barren area with almost no modern development, except for a few casinos and local Indians who all seem to drive $60,000 cars and live in shacks.

The roads here pretty much consist of single-lane stretches of pavement winding through mountains along blind curves with no guard rails.  Everyone seems to drive 80 miles an hour along these roads.  I guess there’s no state highway patrol here given this is a “sovereign nation,” so it’s almost like vehicular anarchy.

Having run along these roads a few times as part of my daily workout, I’ve nearly been hit by traffic, oblivious to the fat white guy wallowing along the yellow stripe who’s stupid enough to jog a route where no path exists.  If running in Las Vegas is dangerous at times, and it certainly can be, then doing the same thing here on an Indian reservation is inviting a death wish.

So, on Saturday morning I went out in search of a detour.  A new path where I could run over the next week which was challenging, but safe.  I thought I’d found it, at least until the final stage of my run, which is where the story picks up.

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You’re looking at the back yard of a house on the Indian reservation, where my body nearly ended up as a bloody pulp.  I was a few snaps away from looking like Gregory Peck in the final scene of The Boys of Brazil.

Off to the left side, there’s a dog house that’s barely visible.  I took this photo the following day.  Note there’s a fence along this path, which should keep the pit bulls at bay.  There’s no such fence on the other side.  The dogs run wild.

There’s a dirt path in front of the house and nothing to indicate any sense of danger.  But as I ran along that path, perhaps no more than five minutes away from the casino, I suddenly heard a growling sound off to my right.  I looked down and saw a muscular grey pit bull.  He was approaching fast.

Not good.

No one is around.  I’m all alone.

Without any warning whatsoever, I now realize that I’m about to be run down by a pit bull on the loose.  I couldn’t get lucky and be confronted by a beagle or a poodle.  I stumble into the pit bull.  Oh, great.

There’s no fucking way I’m going to outrun this animal.  So, I have to think fast.  In fact, running away from the dog transforms me into what he thinks is a giant rabbit.  I’m easy prey.  I begin to slow down.

With every step forward, the dog gets more angry.  He’s snapping and growling and comes to within a few feet of the trunk of my body.  He’s solid grey and wears one of those steel-studded collars — as if the beast’s natural look isn’t quite intimidating enough.

By this time, my run has become a slow walk.  The mean-ass pit bull is now at my side, now no more than a foot away.

That’s when the dog suddenly establishes his position.  The vicious animal straddles the dirt road in front of me and begins barking, while displaying his front teeth.  This is what you would call a real, “I’M FUCKED” moment.

Then, things go from bad to worse.  Much worse.

Two other pit bulls hear all the commotion and come out of nowhere.  They’re running from the back yard and come to assist the grey beast that’s now primed for an attack.  The other pit bull approaches and covers my backside.  He’s darting back and forth and barking wildly.  I feel like a fawn on one of those wildlife shows.  Any notion of outrunning these carnivores and escaping has vanished.

Think fast.  Here’s where I remembered something I was taught as a kid.  When a dog is attacking, the proper course of action is to freeze completely.  Stop all movements.  Since dogs are mostly scent-driven, next you allow the dog to smell the back of your hand.  The logic goes that when the dog understands you’re not a threat, it will retreat.

I’ve got no other options at this point.  It’s not like I can call up the Dog Whisperer and ask for advice.

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The test of patience has only begun.  The grey pit bull is no longer interested in just smelling the back of my hand.  He’s got other curiosities to satisfy.  My crotch suddenly piques his interest.

That’s right — my crotch.

I’m not sure what comes after “FUCK ME!” in the lexicon of expletives, but now I’ve crossed it.  In fact, that’s in the rear view mirror looking back at Albuquerque.

The gnarling beast is now sniffing my baggy shorts.  And growling.  He sniffs, the growls.  Sniff.  Growl.  Meanwhile, the other beastly animal is barking up my ass about five feet away.  Then and there, I’m about two-seconds from singing soprano for the rest of my life.  I mean, I always wanted to write like Truman Capote.  I never wanted to sound like him.

And that’s when I suddenly discover what “keeping cool” really means.  Try standing completely still when your testicles are halfway in the mouth of an angry pit bull.

Somehow, I manage to remain calm while I’m essentially on the receiving end of doggy fellatio.  I think he got in a few licks between barks.

Then, the silence is suddenly broken.

“Chief!”

“Chieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeffffffffff!

I see some old Indian woman off in the distance standing at the front doorstep.  She’s apparently heard all the barking and somehow musters up enough ambition to leave her recliner for 30 seconds.  Either that, or there was a commercial on Wheel of Fortune.

So, “Chief” — which I gather is the grey pit bull’s name — does an instantaneous reversal away from me and darts like a rocket back into the front yard.  The black and white pit bull follows the lead bull, as does the stray third dog still standing on the edge of the road.

I start to breath again.  My crotch is wet from pit bull saliva, but survives.  All is good with the world.

I resist the odd temptation to pull out my cell phone and start snapping photos of what just happened, just so I can selfishly amuse readers.  Still in harm’s way, I’m not going to do anything that may risk agitating “Chief.”  Sorry, but a re-tweet by Neil Channing to his 55,000 followers isn’t worth losing my penis.

The kicker to the story is the old Indian woman standing in the doorway next screamed at me to get lost.  Once “Chief” and the two other pit bulls were back in the yard, she proceeded to read me her version of the riot act.

“This is private property!”

I didn’t know what to say.  I had no idea the dirt road was private.  But getting a ticket for trespassing was the least of my concerns at the moment.

“Stay off this road!  It’s private!”

Hey, Pocahontas — you got it.

Hail to the Chief.