It began on Monday night. My sisters, A, and a very friendly neighbor from across the street with the most interesting shoes I’ve ever seen a grown man wear (think Cinderella slippers for the pimped-out urban male) were assembled around my sister’s Jetta, trying to work out the easiest way to fix her flat. The endeavor was relatively unsuccessful, and I looked on with more concern for keeping the dogs from tangling their leashes around the legs of the tire-fixing participants than for devising hole-patching stratagems.

It was then that a child at the corner, screaming and crying in absolute terror, started to annoy me. At first I suspected it was just the temper tantrum of a poorly behaved child. I tried not to look as the child’s mother obviously struggled to make progress toward us on the sidewalk to no avail. It wasn’t until my sister voiced her suspicion that the boy was terrified of my dogs that things started to get interesting.

When I retreated with the dogs I noted that the child’s screams softened. When I turned back in his direction, the screams returned. My sister was correct. For whatever reason (an early childhood run in with a rabid pack of jackals? The accidental viewing of Kujo? Your guess is as good as mine), the poor child was terrified of my relatively benign-looking dogs.

I eventually lost my morbid fascination with the child’s paroxysms of fear and hoofed it across the street so that he and his family could make it to wherever it is that they were going. The story, alas, does not end here.

Since that evening it seems that whatever time of day I walk my dogs, whatever route I take, whatever tactics of avoidance I devise, I run into that damn kid and his mother. I’m not sure whether the sudden, blood-curdling wailing disturbs me or the dogs more. Zeus will be in the middle of a nice, luxurious poo on some unsuspecting tree lawn and, next thing you know, we’re running for cover like criminals. I find it impossible to keep a low profile in this neighborhood without that kid screaming and railing at us.

Do I feel bad? Well, um, sure. Sort of. I can’t help but think, though, that the kid just needs to shut up and get over it. The devilish side of me wants to try out a little aversion therapy. I could hide behind a dumpster, perhaps, and wait for the energetic yeller to walk by unsuspectingly and then WHAM! Drop a beagle on his head!

This neighborhood isn’t big enough for the both of us.