The Brawl and the Dust and the Bad Ass

They came out of nowhere.

A huge German Shepherd and a big mutt resembling a Ridgeback.

Sherlock was chasing the ball into the sagebrush and was bowled over by the German Shepherd. He leaped up just as the other dog got there. They circled him. One on each side. Sherlock dodged right and the Ridgeback went left. They were both in front of him now.

I backed up.

The owner of the dogs broke into a jog and started yelling. The German Shepherd (Max – of course he’s named Max. Not every Max-dog is evil, but nearly every evil-dog is named Max) leaped onto Sherlock’s back, glaring white canine fangs behind his black curled lip. Snarling-snarling-snarling, the other dog went for the throat.

Sherlock jumped high into the air, shaking off Evil-Max-the-Bastard and went for the Ridgeback. Then it was a mess of colored fur and furious rolling. Growling through mouths full of someone else’s fur.  Boxing and grunting and slobber-flying. Dust from their bodies mixing into a whirlwind, drifting up into the sky.

I backed up some more. Whatever was going to happen, there was nothing I could do. They were all too involved to pay heed to any attempt to stop them, and I wasn’t about to get caught up in the middle of that. I knew I’d be hurt.

The owner was yelling and yelling at her dogs. In between, she was apologizing for their behavior. I stood still and watched as Sherlock rose above and took the upper hand. He bit Max on the ass and then pinned the other one on the ground, snarling right into his face. The mutt yelped and struggled to get away. Sherlock let him up and he took off running. Max-the-Bastard took one more swing at Sherlock but Sherlock rammed him with his shoulder and knocked him back a few feet. He fell hard on his side and flopped around, taking a dazed moment to get back up.

Max bolted down the gully.

The owner-lady was ready to cry, asking me if Sherlock was okay.

I gave him a cursory once-over.

She wanted me to say ‘he’s fine. everything’s fine.’

But I wasn’t going to.

CONTROL YOUR ANIMALS was all I could think, but instead I said nothing. My silence said plenty.

I turned and walked back toward the house.

My boys followed me.

Sherlock’s face split in half, so-so-so happy that he kicked ass.

An hour later he was still smiling at me. “I’m a bad ass, Mom!”

“Yes you are.” He won a gold trophy today in my book. He didn’t start the fight, but he damned well finished it.

Way to go, buddy.

Way. To. Go.