Dog attacks hit close to home for me last week. Let me preface this story by saying that my neighbor is a busy single mom who owns a large Rottweiler. We live in a row of townhomes with no fenced-in yards. When she puts her dog out, it can sit right in the middle of my yard. It has left evidence in my yard, very big evidence.

    The owner insists that, for all of the dog’s aggressive behavior toward me, my kids, and passersby, she is really just a big sweetheart. "So was Kujo," I say under my breath as I walk away and bolt my door shut. I don’t let my kids play behind our house anymore. I make sure the coast is clear before taking my Labrador out (she’s been bitten by the friendly dog). This dog has us on lockdown.

    So, I come home last Friday, and the cow-sized animal is sitting in my yard. It barks and throws itself at me, but its chain holds it back. This has all become routine, annoying routine, so I tell the big, dumb thing to go home, and I go inside.

    Not even a minute later, my wife says, "It’s off its chain."

    Sure enough, I look outside, and Rottweiler is strutting around the parking lot. My wife volunteers me to go out and put it back on its chain, handing me a dull kitchen knife on the way out.

    "There’s no way I’m putting hand anywhere near that thing’s mouth," I say.

    "At least go and tell the neighbors," she implores.

    "Just call 911," I suggest.

    "Try and get the neighbors first."

    I roll my eyes and open the door, making sure the dog has its back turned. I’m about to head into its territory. If it even smells an intrusion, I think, I’m a goner. I picture my story appearing in the Reader’s Digest- you know, that series of stories about people who get horribly mangled by machines, animals, etc., and have to drag themselves across miles of cacti to reach the nearest hospital. That’s where I’m headed, I figure.

    One of my neighbors, a round guy in fatigues is standing a few houses down looking spooked. He’s blabbering about how the dog charged at him. "Stay inside," he tells me, repeating his story again and again.

    But there are kids playing outside. There’s no way I can just cower inside and hope the dog magically gets his chain back on. With knife outstretched, I tiptoe into the neighbor’s yard and up the steps onto their porch. The dog is still pacing in the parking lot. I take a deep breath and knock firmly on the back door. No answer.

    My wife pokes her head out the door. "Anything?"

    Mr. Fatigues tells my wife about the dog charging him. I’m wishing he’ll just go away so I can think things out.

    "Just call 911," I whisper to my wife.

    The dog turns, catching notice of me. With its big, brainless stare, it trots toward me.

    "You’ve got to knock harder," my wife says.

    I roll my eyes.

    The dog is only a few yards away, sniffing at its chain.

    I take a deep breath and slam my fist down hard on the door, so hard it shakes the whole wall. No answer.

    That’s when I feel hot breath on the back of my thigh. I turn around slowly. The dog has its muzzle level with my crotch, checking to see if I’m male or female.

    My hand tightens on the kitchen knife. I hold absolutely still. One wrong move, and my life, and my wife’s life, could be forever altered for the worst.

    The dog stays there for several seconds. I think about making the first move, plunging the knife into its neck. The darn thing would probably just pull the knife out and use it as a toothpick once it was done feeding on my carcass.

    So I just hold still and wait for the dog to get interested in something else.

    The dog eventually trots away.

    Mr. Fatigues jumps for cover like a ten-year old who’s just crap-bombed someone’s porch.

    I tiptoe back to my porch. "Call 911," I say, more of an order this time.

To be continued…

To find out how it all ends, tune in for part two. It involves two tricycles, a taser, and a final twist.