The allotments lie in peaceful silence, until I spot a young woman in a violently pink tracksuit walking at a distance with two pit bulls. The larger of the two has already recognized me and is visibly delighted to see today’s special: my dog. The woman looks up from her phone and waves enthusiastically when she sees me too. These are the same dogs that hurled themselves at me and my dog last week, sending me crashing to the ground as I kicked and flailed at whatever part of those beasts I could reach. The woman keeps waving cheerfully, as if she’s come to treat the gladiators in the arena to jam-filled pastries.
I could walk up to the beaming dompteuse, talk it through, and once again expose my mortal self and my dog to her bloodthirsty pack. In the bottom corner of my mental screen, the standard message appears: “Thinking about suicide? Call 113.” I wave back, cautiously.
Then I call out that my injuries from last time weren’t all that bad, but that it might be better if we kept our distance. She doesn’t hear me; the distance is too great. She walks on, the dogs dragging her forward, a human anchor barely keeping them tethered to the earth.
I walk on and think about the newspaper article on unreachable veterinarians, the importance of a will, and the practical value of pepper spray.