I walk across the dry field that runs alongside the highway, my hundred-pound purse pulling on my shoulder. The strap digs into my flesh and it hurts. I stop at A-frame coffee and order a mocha. I didn’t get one in the morning; there were too many cars in line at the tiny drive-up coffee hut, which I have been told is Fort Bragg’s best coffee secret.
A cheerful young man in an orange aloha shirt takes my order. While I wait, I look around. From across the highway, which is empty at this moment, runs a dog on a leash. A man is running along behind it. The dog is moving so purposefully and fast that I think the man could kick up his feet, cartoon-style, and float along behind the black and white canine like a balloon. Even from here, I can see how shiny the dog’s coat is. It stops to sniff a car tire and the human regains his bearings. They head for the A-frame.
I get out my camera. The dog is an American Staffordshire terrier, better known as a pit bull. He’s not huge, but he is muscular. They come up alongside me and the dog leaps into the bushes, snorting and sniffing. “May I take a picture of your dog?” I say, raising the camera. The man nods and I take a few bad shots.
“May I pet your dog?” I say. I always ask, not just with pit bulls, but with any dog.
The man looks at me, his forehead wrinkled. He doesn’t answer. A second later he shrugs. The dog wanders over and sniffs my shoes, then my pants leg. I put down my hand, fingers curled and let him sniff my knuckles. He does, without much interest, then nudges my hand with his nose. His right ear is sheared off; torn rather than cut, although the tear looks healed. I stroke the dog’s chest once. The dog lets me. He doesn’t seem thrilled at the attention.
“Um,” the man says. “He has bitten a few people.”
“Oh.” I continue my second stroke and slowly pull my hand away, thinking, “You couldn’t have told me that thirty seconds ago?”
“Yeah. He’s not my dog. I’m just taking care of him. He’s my friend’s dog, and I think my friend said he’s bitten a couple of people.”
“Okay.”
“My friend’s in jail so I’m looking after the dog.”
The dog is back rooting in the bushes, tail wagging.
“Miss?” the cheerful young man says, “Your mocha’s ready.”
“Thanks.” I say. I pivot, pick up my mocha. “Well,” I say to the man, “you two have a good day”
“Thanks.”
As I walk over the bridge, I feel a retroactive qualm of fear. It starts in my stomach and rolls up through my body like an earthquake, ending in a shiver. I’m not afraid of dogs, and I can read most of them pretty well. I do have a vivid imagination, though, and my memory is all too quick to helpfully serve up a double handful of stories of pit bull attacks.
I think of the man, dragged across the road by a determined dog. I think of the lost ear. I’m afraid things aren’t going to go well for those two, and I’m afraid it’s the dog who will get the brunt of the bad luck.