Monday, June 14, 2004

The Adventures of Cosmo, the Mostly Good Dog, Adventure the Seventh: Microbusted

It was a sunny morning; Coz was only a few years old.  I was walking with him at the presidio, in an area where eucalyptus and cypress trees dotted a long hill bordered by a sleepy lane. This was before the “skateboard incident” and Coz was still sometimes allowed to exercise off-leash; this seemed like a perfect opportunity to let him go enjoy himself.  So he trotted and sniffed and piddled along twenty feet or so behind me as I scuffed my way up the sandy hillside.

I suddenly heard two sounds in quick succession behind me: one, an old VW laboring up the street, slowly gaining speed and hoping to shift gears soon; and two, the jingle of a roused dog’s collar.  The rumble of the old car had put Coz on alert and I was not in position to do a thing about it.  I turned to see him turn to look back at the slow-moving vehicle: an aged microbus, dusty pus yellow, with the obligatory stickers of flowers and peace signs on the windshield.  The passenger window was open to the nurturing warmth of the day and a longhaired sandal-wearing hippie freak was at the wheel. I sensed disaster in the offing.

It all happened, as they say, in slow motion.  Coz woofed, deep and loud, and creation stood petrified.  All that remained in motion were the dog and the microbus.  Cosmo began to charge up the hill, loping heavily, as much an ox as a dog, a dangerous enthusiasm having taken possession of him. 

The hippie saw it coming. His vehicle was moving past us, but not quickly enough.  Coz’s thundering gait veered out toward the road.  The dog was closing the gap quickly, stretching out his stride, his jowls flapping, his fangs glinting, his face a broad mad grin. 

Cosmo was still accelerating; the microbus had no more to give.  I saw the hippie lean over across the passenger seat and try to roll up the window, his long bushy hair bouncing as he desperately turned the crank.  I called after Coz but knew it to be less than useless.  He was obviously on some sort of mission.  He pulled up alongside his quarry and left the sandy parkland for the blacktop of the street. 

He leapt.  The hippie, still working on the window, gaped in horror.  Cosmo’s head slammed squarely into the passenger door, making a sound I felt in my chest fifty yards away.  He bounced cleanly off the van, which was not appreciably slowed or thrown off course by this vicious and unprovoked attack.  Regaining his feet, Cosmo turned and started back toward me, his smile ecstatic and his stubby tail wagging happily.  The car drove on up the hill to safety. 

Coz didn’t care.  He’d given chase, caught his prey, and left it with a nice dent in the door.  He had brought it down, shown it who was alpha on that hill.  He was so proud of himself as he trotted back.  And that’s the last time we romped on that particular hillside.  Neither he nor the rest of the neighborhood were ready to have that much fun ever again.  And, thankfully, we never did.