I like Stephen King’s work. I am off and on with the Dark Tower Series – largely due to the fear that the magic in The Drawing of the Three may not emerge from future pages in the following books in the series. But I steer away from what I want to write about. When I was kid, I read some of his books – tasty things that were often brought to life on the TV screen. I remember a scene (if I can recall it correctly) when the dog named Cujo, a rabid Saint Bernard, stalked a woman and her son as they hid in a car. A terrifying moment for me. So, there’s the background for the next part of this post.
I have a chocolate lab puppy. She’s six months old and can be strong willed and loving at the same time. My girlfriend and I often ask ourselves sometimes why we have dog. Times like when she does her best to outsmart us – an easier task when it’s me versus when it’s versus my girlfriend – and when she attempts to lick us to death. Her name is Rocket.
We spend parts of our week on a mountainside deep across the Ontario – Quebec border. I take Rocket for walks. It’s a nice this time of year. Cold enough to feel good. Colourful enough to be visually stimulating.
As we rounded a steep hill on our way home a Saint Bernard approached barking at us. The dog, it’s back as easily as high as my waist, came at us. I’d seen it once before while running. The same situation. Barking and charging. I don’t know who was more scared, Rocket or me. I called out to the owners – who were most likely somewhere inside the home – which fell away unheard. I then did my best to get Rocket and I moving down the hillside towards safety. The Saint Bernard followed. This elevated me and my pup’s anxiety. Anxiety can flow into fear if it’s not properly managed. Rocket nipped at the bigger dog. While I applaud a strong female, I feared my girl would aggravate this much bigger dog and result in her getting hurt. In all this drama we made it home and the Saint Bernard walked around our cottage. Eventually my girlfriend and I snuck into her car and drove to the owner’s home to let him know his dog was off leash. It followed us up the hillside. My girlfriend, ever the diplomat, handled things smoothly with the owner (in her native French) while I wanted to rage about keeping one’s dog leashed and supervised (I find this something I am struggling with when I see it).
In that moment I am glad Cujo remained in the pages of a book and in a movie and not something that manifested in my own experience of reality.