Yesterday our coffee table breathed its last mighty breath and fell apart (for the last time).
I was very much okay with this. It took up too much room and it was difficult to fully do all my *super* manly exercises on my Swiss ball with that thing constantly in the way.
Anyway, it needed to go, so Noah and I bundled up, I picked the coffee table up above my head (which I tell you for no other reason than that I want you to think I’m He-Man himself), and we started making the trek to the dumpsters.
About twenty feet from our destination, a young woman (late teens, early twenties at best) stood near the sidewalk with two medium-sized dogs on leashes. I didn’t think much about it and we began to walk past her.
As we passed, the larger of the two dogs leapt and, with only a last-second snarling sound, bit solidly into my thigh, a couple inches above my knee.
I not so carefully set the table down and screamed (not my finest moment), “your f***ing dog just bit me!”
Before she could respond and before I could think a clear thought, the dog turned toward Noah who was a good ten feet behind. My little boy stood motionless, probably confused as hell. The dog sprinted toward Noah. I sprinted toward Noah. The dog leapt toward Noah’s face. I leapt toward the dog.
This is what I saw happening as the dog went after Noah.
This is probably what the dog’s owner saw happening.
Regardless, if you have sharp teeth, you don’t mess with my kid.
Before the dog could make contact with my paralyzed son, I kicked him extremely powerfully in the rib cage and sent him rolling in the snow. “Get the **** out of here!” I furiously demanded as I stared it down. Also not my finest parenting moment. Unless you count that I had gone all Bruce Lee and saved my kid’s face from being ripped off.
Anyway, the dog scampered off. And then things really got interesting.