Wild Dogs Attack me in Puerto Rico
**Actual Hill
Ok, well last night got fucking weird. Around 8:30pm, after a rigorous P90X sweat-a-thon, I decided to shower, dress myself-ish, and walk to Tamboo...a beach front restaurant about 1/2 a mile from my surf hut. Anyhow, I leave my hut in full yoga pants and a scraggly hooded shirt when all of a sudden I remember a moment from a conversation I had 5 days ago. Miguel, my sweet landlord, had mentioned that he keeps "Pimiento" on him (pepper spray) for the dogs. OK, well I'm not quite sure how that concerns me, because every dog I've met here has been super fluffy and sweet. Well...until tonight. So upon hearing Miguel's voice in my head, I decided to walk back to my hut, unscrew the 2 ft. plastic broom handle from my dust pan and walk with it...just in case. WELL FUCKING, JUST IN CASE, THANK GOD.
**Not Actual Dog
As I got down the steep hill (pictured above) on the blacked out road towards Tamboo, I saw a dog, middle of the street, about the size of an average German Shepard, comforting. He of course was a mix of some sort, as all sato's (island dogs) are.
Anyhow, if there's such a thing as tangible energy, I sensed it tonight. The Sato, scoped me out and then started running towards me. I couldn't decide if it was a friendly, I want to lick you, run, OR an I'm gonna eat your fat ass up, run. Regardless, I took the defensive stance hedging my bets...and I'm glad I did. This mother fucker wasn't here to play fetch at all. Once he got within a few feet of me, I felt the offensive bark. He growled, darted in, I swung, he darted out. Oh, the fight was on and he was totally sizing me up. Meanwhile, in a slight panic, I was looking for higher ground and a better weapon than some fucking plastic broom handle. "SOS, Miguel, por favor bring me some fucking Pimiento spray bra..." no answer. Thank fucking god I had that shitty broom handle though. At least something to distract him if he tried to latch on to something. So I did the expected...yelled out shit like "no" and "tsk" and "fuck off." Apparently he didn't speak English. Where's Cesar Milan when you need him?! Regardless, I kept Cugo within 6 feet of me. Although at times, he took a chance and lunged forward with a bark and growl getting as close as 3 feet. I swung and screamed and slowly retreated. At this point I looked to my right and saw two friends....no, not mine...his. Two other fucking wild dogs jumping past a fence to come and eat me. What is this ambush bullshit?! Aren't there any field mice you assholes can eat? Honestly, now I got a bit scared. One dog, I feel confident in killing, (IN SELF DEFENSE, relax psychos, I love dogs) But 3???? Fuck.
**Not Actual Dogs
So when I spot the other 2 dogs, I immediately look behind me for something to jump up on...nothing but a few trash bins. At least those could put some distance between me and the dogs if necessary. I can't overstate that I literally felt like I was about to be attacked. Keep in mind, I am on a deserted road with one street light. Not chill. Anyhow, I continue my yelling and swinging, and notice a pivotal moment in the fight. One of the dogs gets stuck in the barbed wire through the fence. It felt as if a referee entered the scene and called a time out. I wasn't going to waste a moment of the pause, so I started to back up. As I took a step backwards, yelled out, swung my shitty broom handle and continued to look for higher ground...eventually the lead dick head stopped chasing me. Once I got to a safe distance I noticed him run over to his stuck friend and saw him trying to help. I felt sorry for the dog caught in barbed wire...but not sorry enough to help. I was also kinda like, yea, fuck you dicks, I'm safe now and you're caught in barbed wire. If you were nice, I'd of probably brought you food and water, but you weren't, so now this is happening. Anyhow, I watched them struggle for a while from a distance, and then started to consider my options for returning home after dinner. Ugh, I can't believe I actually have to game plan around coming home because of some attack dogs. I was really looking forward to a chill, relaxing night of eating healthy fish and going back home. Anyhow, I did have to come up with a strategy.
Option 1: go back the same road with a planned route, knowing where my higher ground walls are along with bringing food back as distraction.
Option 2: take the beach route for the length of 3 football fields and hook right to avoid where they were (no promises there weren't any other dogs or creatures on the beach though)
OR Option 3: unknowingly after sharing this story with my waitress, she would offer me a ride back home. Ummmm....Option 3 it was. And in the safety of a car, I was dropped off restaurant to door, like a total American Pussy. But god damn it felt nice not getting attacked by any dogs.
The Moral:
If you find yourself in life, in a position where instinct for survival speaks louder than instinct for maintaining coolness credibility, take the route of survival. I can't predict if I will ever be approached by a pack of wild dogs again, but I can say that if I hadn't double backed and grabbed that broom handle based on instinct, I may not be typing with a right hand, right now. Also, when it comes to your safety and the safety of the ones you love, don't be afraid to break the rules. Oh, also, fuck you wild dogs. I know it's not your fault you were born, but still, I'm a pretty nice guy and that shit wasn't cool.
Special Thanks:
To Ingrid and her husband Jimmy for taking me home.