Daddy Got Bit by a Hound Dog

We needed a dog, and the dog would need training. My children and I read books, watched people and their dogs, discussed training methods and trainers. Especially, we read and watched Cesar Millan, the dog whisperer. Born in poverty in Mexico and raised surrounded by dogs, he has risen to global fame for his dog-handling abilities. From his home in Los Angeles where he rollerblades the streets, followed by his large pack of rehabbed pit bulls and rottweilers, he now teaches dog psychology, which he insists is the key to an obedient, happy dog. Calm energy, he says, is essential in your relationship with your dog. As your dog’s leader, you must be calm and confident, and your dog will mirror this calmness.

I loved this. Growing up in a rural culture of practical, rough-shod animal handling—where animal movement and compliance was facilitated primarily by yelling, kicking, and clubbing—this dog psychology was the new paradigm under which my family would relate to our animals. My children listened and watched. When a new dog came growling and panting they stood calm and still, allowing themselves to be sniffed while I beamed happily.

My wife, though, did not come into the fold. Cats and dogs disgust her. She was happy hissing and kicking and shared no interest in upgrading her dog skills.

I was working on a chain link fence for some good customers, houndsmen. A pack of four lion hounds and multiple ratty little yappers flowed in and out of the house, baying, bawling, and yapping. When the owners were outside with them I was mostly ignored; but when I was alone working, and the pack came upon me, they had been growing disturbingly aggressive and agitated.

Today I was under their porch, hooking up a hose to a hydrant when the dogs came pouring from the house, down the steps, into the yard. After some sniffing and circling I was discovered and set upon. The pack immediately engulfed me. The hounds took positions around me, savagely snarling and lunging, while the smaller animals darted in and out around my ankles. These hounds were big, tall dogs, and their canines were clicking at waist level. The circle tightened and the barking and baying was deafening. But did I panic? Did I lash out and yell? Did I pour gas on the fire by reacting aggressively, fueling their excitement and creating a firestorm of emotion? Thanks to Cesar I did not. I stood calmly and spoke soothingly.

Unaffected by their aggression, I asserted my confident leadership by the flow of calm energy I projected. The noise subsided slightly. I was pleased. Thank you, Cesar, for a better way. I turned slowly to resume my work at the hydrant and instantly the biggest hound rushed in and bit my right butt cheek. I roared and spun around, kicking and clubbing like a gangster. Lunging at the big, black male I pounded him alongside his head then swung wildly at the next dog. The whole pack fell silent and slunk away. Muttering and breathing heavily, I reached back and felt for torn flesh or fabric. I seemed to be intact. I glared at the dogs.

When I told my family of the attack that evening, Amy put down her spoon and whooped and laughed irreverently. Asher and Claire collapsed onto the table giggling. “Daddy got bit in the butt by a hound dog!” Over and over they said this, jerking and convulsing in their chairs, miming the desperate lunges of a smug, unsuspecting man seized from behind. I hunched lopsidedly in my chair, spooning my soup slowly; a broken, bitten man.

When I rose the next morning, I had a plan. I am nothing if not cunning, and I can settle a score. My work for the day was sliding privacy slats into this new chain link fence. These slats are 6’ slender strips of plastic. The spot I chose was under the porch, out of sight of the owners. My back would be to the house, and before me the yard was open and unobstructed. I prepared a handful of slats, light enough to get some tip velocity, heavy enough to land with force. Opening the gate, I slipped under the porch and got into position. I cleared my throat loudly and a river of howling dogs poured down the steps.

I whimpered and cowered against the house, drawing them in, and then silently I lunged into the pack, lashing viciously left, right, one, two. The big black male I caught under the jaw, another I belted across the ribs. They squalled piteously and scrambled backward, regrouping silently a safe distance away. Their eyes were wide, and their big hound ears perked respectfully. This they understood. Here was a man with some steel in his bones. I swaggered back to my work.

Our new relationship worked well for us in the following days. If anyone bayed in my face or rushed at me across the lawn, I reached for some slats and shook them menacingly. The hounds gulped and slunk back. They were nasty; I was nasty. They were nice; I was nice. We had no more trouble.

Cesar has his ways, but for now, it seems, I must have mine.