I was walking to work this a.m., approaching the corner of 12th and Belmont, where there is a traffic light. At the corner was an older, disheveled-looking woman with a dog on a leash. The dog was old and grizzled, large, some sort of archetype of a large generic short-haired brown dog, perhaps Browndogicus dullus, that’s what I will call it.

As I approached the intersection, the dog started woofing absently toward the street, but then suddenly broke and veered straight at me with a much more ferocious bark. He snapped his head out to bite me and I stepped back just in time and he got a big mouthful of pants.

Oddly, my reaction to this situation was anger. Anger is not my normal reaction to external situations. I ran back a couple of steps and shouted: “HEY!” loud enough that people in cars in the street at the red light stared back.

The woman holding the other end of the leash finally looked my way and said: “Oh, sorry, he didn’t see you back there.”

He didn’t see me back here? Your dog has just bitten someone and your reaction is that he didn’t see me “back there?”. She seemed completely unflustered.

Normally if something lightly offensive happens to me in public and the offender immediately apologizes, I’m all gushy and “that’s-ok”-y. Not this time. Angry and adrenalin-pumped, I stormed off after only my “HEY,” furious.

Seriously, if my dog ever even chased after someone I’d be mortified. It almost made me wish that the dog had bitten through my skin so I’d be able to call the cops and she’d get yelled at. Argh.