Three Men, Two Points of View

Every other Sunday or so, I have one of two visitors over. Over coffee and tea we speak of “things.” Sundays, especially those Sundays, have become my most favorite day of the week.

One of my two Sunday visitors, “E-Man,” matches up almost perfectly with me and my worldviews; the other, “Tommy Gun,” likes to argue about nearly everything. So, Tommy-G is “Mr. Contrary,” while E-Man is “my choir” (and conversely, I am his). I enjoy conversing with both of these fellows, but there is a marked difference on how I feel during and after our lengthy discussions, depending on which of them it is that comes over that day.

E-Man, my intellectual “bird of a feather” is just plain fun to talk to. Our “speak easies” start at noon and end only when the sun’s light has faded. Sometimes it seems we come to our senses when it starts to get dark out, having lost all track of time. Without his own transport, he doesn’t like to be on this side of town trying to catch jeepnies home in the dark. I don’t blame him; this part of the Philippines can be dicey even in the day.

Now Tommy-G, well, he challenges me on almost every subject. As far as the two of us goes, no two people could possibly be so seemingly opposed in viewpoint; therefore, I’m sure he purposely “goes adversarial” on me mostly because it’s his nature. That’s why I call him Mr. Contrary. The time goes by pretty quickly with him as well, but I’m tired and mentally used up when its time for him to jump astride his motorcycle and roar off into the evening.

Both men are a study in where they come from. E-man is from the Northern Midwest; he’s exceedingly polite, diffident and self-effacing. Tommy is from the Northeast; he’s brusque, impatient, and strident. If you had to characterize the people of those two stateside regions, both men’s personalities would match up as expected with the average profile of the region where each comes from. In other words, to put it succinctly, Midwesterners are nice and Northeasterners are ornery! I wonder what it says about me that I’m also from the Midwest like E-man, but my personality more mirrors Tommy’s aggressive persona than it does E-man’s more serene one.

These days, Tommy and I have an unspoken agreement to NOT discuss Middle-Eastern politics, including and especially Iraq and Afghanistan. However, on his way out the door last Sunday Tommy-Gun snuck in a couple jabs at me stating snottily, “9 more of our brothers died the other day—did you see that?”

What Tommy-Gun believes is quite simple: The Middle East is a screwed up place filled with mean spirited people that have been slaughtering each other for millennia and not one of them is worth even one American GI’s life.

Tommy is a military veteran just like E-man and myself; so all three of us have that in common. Tom’s dad was a marine in the early 50s and his pop is vociferously against us being in that part of the world even more than his son is. For Tom, perhaps it’s a case of “sometimes we are who raised us.” Now, that is somewhat true with me too; my parents are very traditional and I absorbed many of their worldviews, but my views ALSO come from my own world travels and travails.

In the case of E-man, who is a fellow from one of the most liberal States in the union, HE (like me) is definitely a man who has BECOME decidedly conservative BECAUSE of what he has seen in the world, and he has lived in and seen a lot of it. When college professors told us how we SHOULD feel about things, neither of us made our minds up based on the lectures of these mostly half-baked theoreticians who had never been anywhere or done anything. Both of us have spent years (hell, decades!) in college classrooms, but because we have very pragmatic backgrounds, unlike most of our easily impressed and inexperienced younger classmates, we did NOT simply swallow every professorial opinion we were subjected to.

So, with Tommy-Gun I find myself mostly debating, defending and arguing. He’s a very smart guy (just ask him!) and I rarely feel like I’ve ever made much, if any, headway on convincing him of anything. Of course even if I did manage such a thing he’s so headstrong that he’d never admit it. The good thing is that in going through my points in my arguments with him—by being forced to give voice to them—in the light of day they either make sense or they don’t. So, once spoken, there are times that my line of reasoning doesn’t seem quite as vigorous as I thought. It is then that I find myself “evolving” and even rethinking my positions. This is especially true when Tommy finds “holes” in them. (Call me a flip-flopper if you must; I call it being thoughtful and open-minded).

History and culture are E-man’s forte; in fact, he has a degree in history. I love history; and I can’t get enough of being around others who love it as much as I do, especially since fellow lay historians are so few and far between. With most folks, once I start into my “lectures” on some historical aspect, I can practically see the glaze come over their eyes. When E-man and I start “swapping knowledge,” as I call it, before we know it, six hours has flown by. If you can imagine sitting in the same chair through 3 extra long movies and not even noticing their length, THAT is how a Sunday afternoon passes into evening when E and I have our discussions.

The funny thing about E-man is that even though he comes from such a socially and politically liberal place, he has been taught by his experiences of living in the 3rd World that most tenants of progressive liberalism are faulty and untenable. Based on E’s viewpoint, Katana, one of my fellow bloggers and a very nice person, would undoubtedly label him a “neo-con,” which, by the way, is liberal-speak for “moron.” These days, anyone with a strongly traditional or conservative belief system is called the “n word,” which seems to be a tag with negative connotations made up by “progressive” academia for anyone with whom they disagree. (The left loves to label people negatively and then dismiss them outright as being contemptible and stupid).

A final point on my “Sunday conversations” with both E-man and Tommy-G are our blatant and persistent lack of observance of political correctness. We trust each other implicitly, thus, we are totally comfortable with using any words and expressions we desire, no matter how racist, sexist or otherwise inappropriate they would be in any other setting. Generally, we don't say too much that would be considered anti-social, but if one of us "slips," we don't jump down the other's throat over it. I have to admit; being free to say anything, no matter what, is cathartic; I recommend it to anyone every so often.

After all, there’s a time and a place for everything… For me, its Sundays.

What's the difference between the VA and a con artist?

Nearly everyday I meet with veterans to discuss their next moves in their ongoing struggles with the VA. Today was no different. This time I met at a local hotel restaurant with a retired master gunnery sergeant, a marine of course.

Strategically, I chose a table with a direct view of the pool—you never know what you might see, hopefully NOT some fat hairy European in a Speedo. Fortunately, even when there is a “Mr. Speedo” there is also usually a cutey in a bikini to keep him company; so I guess it all evens out.

My friend had an uncharacteristically troubled look on his face as we shook hands and took our seats.

“Up until about ten minutes ago I wasn’t sure I was even going to make it here,” he said, shaking his head while opening his briefcase. “I was in my car stopped in traffic just down from Kokomos, and this chick walks up next to my car. She put one hand on her forehead and then slammed the side of my car with her other hand. Then she fell down on the street and started groaning like I’d hit her.”

“Oh man! She was trying to scam you… It just never ENDS around here,” I complained bitterly. “So what happened?”

“A bunch of people suddenly surrounded me, all of ‘em looking at this woman lying on the ground. I didn’t know what the hell to do. And then a motorcycle cop came up and grabbed the woman by the arm and forced her to her feet. He told me he saw everything and to go ahead and go.”

“Dude! Good on him! He saved you a whole bunch of hassle, if not a whole lot of pesos.”

“Yep. He acted like he had been watching her, like he knew she was going to try something like that. She must have a history of scamming foreigners.”

“I hope he takes her to jail and roughs her up on the way there. I wonder how many tourists and foreigners she has already bilked? I guess its just one more trick we have to watch out for.”

He shrugged resignedly, “Well, at least that policeman helped me out. All’s well that ends well…”

I chuckled, “Well, if it’s not the VA screwing you over, it’s a local con artist. You gotta love it!”

Gulf War I Revelations

Sometimes you think you know things, and then, when you learn otherwise, the particulars can come as quite a shock.

While sitting on the recumbent bike and peddling away like I do almost everyday in my neighborhood gym, I had a running conversation with another retired military man, an ex-Marine ten years my senior, a man I highly respect. I’ve known him for more than a year. I’ve long recognized in him the telltales of PTSD, so I watch what I say. His anger can flash over in a heartbeat, and I would just as soon keep him as calm and agreeable as possible.

He was an ordnance man over the bulk of his long career; although back in the 60s during the Vietnam War, he started out in intelligence. Just before calling it a career in the mid-90s he served in-theater during the 1st Gulf War, which coincidentally was the only war in which I had the opportunity to serve during my own 27-year career. So, as far as having shared experiences to discuss, other than my comparatively brief time in the Corps, The Gulf War is about it.

But, compared to my buddy’s experiences in the Gulf, my own were myopic. My “little” job was to directly supervise and manage a dayshift of aircraft repair specialists. We kept a fleet of a dozen or so C-130 transports in flying shape by fixing them when they broke, and better yet, by maintaining them so that they wouldn’t break. Our mission was much complicated by the dusty sandy atmosphere that played hell with the engines, hydraulics and flight controls. Those 30 odd men and 12 aircraft was my world for the 7 months of that very short war. In other words, I had a very narrow view of the whole thing. I did not have much of a sense of the “big picture” at all.

On the other hand, during that 1st war with Iraq, my friend was a senior ranking warrant officer, a “gunner” as they are called; his job being to keep our frontline troops stocked with bombs, shells and bullets. In a way, it was probably one of THE most important jobs of the war. Without guys like him—the army, air force, marine and naval “trigger pullers,” like the bomber and fighter jocks, artillerymen, infantrymen, and tankers—NONE of these actual war fighters, can do their jobs.

In a very nonchalant way, Gunner shared with me two startlingly eye-opening pieces of information about “our” war that I hadn’t a clue about—not even an inkling. As he shared them with me, I asked him if he was sure the info was no longer classified. He assured me that it was all declassified by 2001, ten years after the war ended.

The first incredible piece of intelligence he had for me was of the presence of tactical nuclear weapons onboard the ships he served on. Now that alone is not shocking to me, since tac nukes are always an optional part of any American theater commander's list of “possibilities,” albeit a remote one. What I found incredible was how apparently ready we were to use them. I asked if he was sure, and he promised me that it was absolutely so. “Guns,” another nickname for “ammo” guys like him, vowed that he personally oversaw the preparations of these miniature nuclear devices. They were armed and made ready for immediate and judicious “delivery” to the very heart of Iraq.

He claims that the “trigger” for the “nuking” of the Iraqis was simple—if Hussein dared to use chemical or biological weapons on our troops, and it was confirmed, then the use of “tac” nukes was going to be our “measured” response. I’m sure Hussein was apprised of our intentions; otherwise the “threat” of their use would have been lost on him. I must admit that just the thought that we were that close to escalating the war to a nuclear level makes me shudder, even now.

The second bit of eye-opening information came about as I opined to him of my deep dissatisfaction with Colin Powel and the first George Bush, about how angry with them I was that they had “pussied out” and did not finish off Hussein and his malevolent army when we clearly had the means to easily do it.

I explained, “Because of those two numbskulls, Hussein had 12 years to prepare the current insurgency that’s got us all tied up in knots now. If that idiot Powel hadn’t gotten soft after the so-called “highway of death” we wouldn’t be in the pickle we are in today. We had them beat. All we had to do was go to Baghdad and take over!”

Gunner chuckled at my apparent naiveté and deigned to straighten me out, practically flooring me in the process, “Well, I hate to bust your bubble, but all we had available at the start of the offensive was just 30 days of ordnance. That’s all any of our contingency plans called for. The opening bombing campaign went on for a lot longer than that. What was it—40 some days? By the time our ground troops started rolling in we were all but out. We had shot our wad!”

I was incredulous. “You’re kidding. Why in God’s name would we put ourselves such a situation?”

“At the time we thought our factories and supply pipeline would be able to step it up and keep up with wartime requirements, but it didn’t turn out that way. At the end, as soon as the ordnance arrived in theater we offloaded it for immediate use. It went straight out of the crates and packaging and into the war. We could not rebuild an inventory.”

Some things began to dawn on me as I listened to him. I remembered how intense our C‑130 cargo missions had been towards the end of the war.

He continued, “We were so short on deliverable ammo that I remember offloading obsolete bombs that were clearly marked for disposal. We ended up dropping everything we had in the inventory, even the outdated stuff, and still we ran out. We just didn’t have enough ordnance to keep the war going at that intensity.”

Hearing this stuff, I was dumfounded.

“They asked me to figure out a way to safely stack bombs on deck and get underway because we needed to move as much as we could all at once. The Navy ended up paying me $20,000 based on the procedures that I wrote to do exactly that. Everyone else in the ordnance career field said it couldn’t be done. As far as I know they still use my procedures.”

I congratulated him. “Nice bonus! Its true isn’t it, that necessity is the mother of invention?” I chuckled at my own clichéd cleverness.

I’ve read lots on the Internet and seen plenty of TV productions concerning all aspects of The Gulf War; yet, I’ve never heard a thing on either of my very credible gym buddy’s two amazing assertions. Of his two claims, I find the most amazing his allegation that the war might well have ended prematurely NOT JUST because of a lack of willingness on the part of our leaders, but MORE PROBABLY because we had simply run out of bombs.

I would go so far as to deduce that at that moment, as a nation, we were in a very dangerous state of military NON-preparedness. The fact that the Cold War was over and won was a VERY lucky thing indeed; otherwise, it would have been the perfect time for the Soviets, or any enemy for that matter, to attack us or to pursue some other act of aggression.

On further thought, perhaps the fact that we were so low on conventional armaments is a prime reason Gunner had been ordered to rack and stack those tactical nukes. When it comes down to it, if we had actually run out of the conventional stuff, perhaps Schwarzkopf saw the use of “non-conventional” explosives as a viable alternative. It’s not likely, but still its food for thought. After my revelatory discussion in the gym I’m realizing all the more that sometimes things are not always as they seem.

Listen UP! I'm STILL in my 40s!

For another hour and a half I can STILL say that I am in my 40s.

This past year has been a different one for me compared to past ones. Before my 49th, starting every April or so, when asked my age I’d just bump it up to my upcoming one. I don’t know why I did that—its just a habit that started when I was very young when I still actually looked forward to being older and hopefully wealthier and wiser.

It’s funny—I just haven’t been able to get myself to say the response, “I’m 50.” I’d start to think about what I’d say and I’d just go with “Oh, I'm 49.” I noticed that the apparent extra thought I put into answering it would cause a few raised eyebrows. But starting tomorrow, I’ll have no more choice; although I suppose I could just lie. Nahhh! That’s just not in me to do that I guess.

I’ve been thinking a LOT about age lately—imagine that! I’ve been considering how we look at it. Generally, it seems to me that we classify people by the decade in years they are.

We think of teens as inexperienced and searching for identity. We give them absolutely no credibility whatsoever. The teen years are something to "get through." I despised my teens ALMOST as much as my pre-teens.

The twenties and thirties tend to be lumped together—those are the years of our physical if not our mental “prime.” I LOVED my 20s and 30s!

When folks hit 40 they start thinking of their mortality, and of course the deadly idea of "middle age" rears its ugly wrinkled dried up old head. But, we do tend to give folks in their 40s lots of extra “credit” for intelligence and experience. In truth, most folks hit their "working prime" during their 40s, supposedly the years noted as prime for making the most money, which was certainly true for me.

Military folks (like me) rarely stay in the service past the age of 50, except for some generals, E-9s, reservists and guardsmen. Most of the rest of us are in fact forced out before the age of 50. So, over the years, 50 isn’t an age I ever gave much thought to. To me, anything past 5 decades was a black hole of nothingness—its not something I ever wanted to consider.

The age of 60 denotes the beginning of old age; while 70, or OLD age, for most of us marks the beginning of the end of our last decade on earth. Anything past 80 to me is gravy, and 80 is a slim 30 years away for me now. (Mom and Dad, disregard this paragraph; it doesn't apply to you guys!)

So, in less than an hour I will be 50, and I must admit that I feel a little distressed about that. I didn’t feel anything at all when I turned 30, and 40 barely rated a shrug. But 50! For the first time in my life I kind of want to turn back the clock. It tastes unpleasantly bitter and I want to spit it back out before even tasting it.

After all, 60 is ONLY 10 short years away, and I DO mean short. I can’t believe that time can spin so quickly forward. I really thought that once I retired and had fewer things to do with my days that the passage of time would slow down.

But no, the passing days, weeks and months seem to be quickening their passage, even as I have less to do during them. Perhaps that’s the origin of the phrase “its all downhill from here!” because ALL things speed up when going downhill, right?

Ahhhh "momentum"--you SUCK!

The dogs of North Carolina

My first assignment in the U.S. Air Force was in the Midatlantic State of North “Kack-a-lackey,” as some of us airmen stationed in North Carolina used to jokingly refer to it. Why we called it that, I have no idea. Regardless, it was a beautiful place for enjoying outdoor activities, like running, and I was in my running prime back then at the very start of the 1980s.

I’ve run back roads, trails and streets in lots of American States, many of them breathtakingly gorgeous to behold—and I well remember that North Carolina is definitely one of those. But, it was not without its drawbacks. For instance, I found that without a doubt NC was also the worst in terms of “mean ass dogs per mile."

It was my experience that NC dogs were bigger, toothier, fiercer, and more aggressive than in anyplace I’ve EVER lived, bar none. To make matters worse, all those nasty Carolina canines were also THE most unchained and untied, also bar none. Even so, that didn’t stop me from venturing away from the comparative dog-free safety of Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, my home.

In the style of those “ancient” bygone days, I hit the streets wearing little shorts, a tight tank top, baseball cap and running shoes. With so little on, I was as vulnerable to a dog attack as I possibly could be; and I wasn’t the only one to feel that vulnerability. Rick Chandler, a shopmate whose disc-jockey name was “Slick Rick,” was a 6-foot African-American. He loved riding his 12-speed bicycle long distances over the rolling North Carolina country roads. After suffering several scary “chasings by dog,” he began to ride with the protection of a heavy chain linked with a bike lock around his shoulders and neck. During an attack he could wield it to deadly effect against almost any dog foolish enough to nip at him. It wasn’t long before I learned for myself how crazy-mean the dogs were in that area.

Being in pretty good running shape meant that I could cover some pretty long distances, and like Rick, I disliked doing all of it within the confines of the air force base. I could run 15 miles easy on a long slow day and I did exactly that 3 or 4 times a month; but usually, I did more prudent runs of between 6 and 10 miles. It was on one of these shorter routes that I found myself in mortal canine combat.

One spring afternoon, after my shift at the component repair shop, I headed out on a run from our place at 206 Kenly Road in base housing. I started off briskly, and in ten minutes I was through the back gate and heading straight up the road to East Ash Boulevard, as I remember, a 4-lane major thoroughfare about a mile up from the gate.

Twenty or so minutes after the start of my foray, I popped down, into and through a 6-foot ditch, across the busy 4-lane East Ash, and into a gas station lot that may or may not still be there some 25 years later. Just behind the gas station was a low rent trailer court. My plan was to cut across a gravel access road that teed off of one from the trailer court; and then I figured to jog across an open grassy field into a large municipal nature park, which was actually my ultimate objective all along. The park, a favorite of mine, was all trees and grass, laced with plenty of trails, and absolutely perfect for what I liked more than anything, cross country running. However that’s not quite how it turned out.

“GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

My spine went cold and my legs weak at a sudden fearsome rumbling coming from my right and slightly behind me. It was a deep angry reverberating growl, and whatever its source it was approaching fast. I knew that because upon snapping my head around I saw that the growling snarl was issuing from the throat of a large and charging German shepherd.

I had a life and death decision to make, because that mad dog monster was sprinting right at me up the middle of the gravel road from the trailers. 10 feet of chain snapped wildly behind it from its thick leather collar; he must have snapped the chain with a mighty lunge upon seeing me. Some dogs see a runner and its chasing instinct kicks in; it’s the wolf genetics, and in this case, I was irresistible fleeing prey. Well, this was one human “deer” that was going to fight back.

I knew not to try to run away; all that would do was inspire it to tear out the backs of my legs. No way! Not my legs! A runner’s legs are his life. My brother claims that all anyone has to do in that situation is to point forcefully at the charging animal and yell as loud as possible at it, “NO!” That might well have worked in this case, but by the time I saw it, the dog was almost on top of me. And besides, I had never seen anything like this crazily intense animal. He wasn’t barking, he wasn’t blustering, his only intent to close with and kill me horribly. I knew this instantly; I FELT it in my gut.

Skidding to a stop on the gravel and turning quickly to face it, I had only a moment to assume a classic fighting stance—legs apart with the right foot slightly behind as a brace, body crouched, and fists held high with the right one pulled back. In this case, I also pulled my chin as far down to my chest as I could get it—I’m sure I did this because I could feel its intense gaze locked onto my throat.

In far less time than it’s taken to read this sentence, the deeply growling animal swiftly closed in. I was shocked that he continued his furious charge, as most dogs will check up and cautiously circle before coming in for the first snapping bite. I think this one had some training though, because there was no pause in him at all; he was a freight train and I was Pauline atrussed upon the tracks. Like a Looney Toon animation character, the rampaging beast’s scrabbling paws and claws threw a shower of gravel and dust behind it.

Five feet to my front, it gathered itself for the final leaping lunge and threw itself headlong, paws first, up and at my face. I noticed things in that split second that still spill into my memory—its chest broad and muscular, the fur there a lighter brown than the shoulders, legs and body; glittering dark eyes half-closed in a black face; teeth yellowed and glistening with saliva, every single pointed one of them; and at the end of the attack, I recall a mouth as gaping as a hippo’s, apparently to facilitate the ripping out of my windpipe. I observed too that it cocked its head slightly, exactly like a person does to adjust for biting into a taco. Funny the things one notices in stressful moments.

In an instant, all traces of trepidation disappeared from my trembling gut. I became as enraged as my attacker. I WANTED him to attack. I pulled my right fist back a little further to create more leverage and threw the hardest twisting punch of my life. It was a right cross, and it was perfect.

In golfing and baseball the most powerful hitting and driving strokes feel absolutely effortless when performed. It was like that with that right cross. I caught that shepherd directly on his gaping lower jaw and suddenly his world flipped upside down. The rumble in his chest turned into a whimpering shriek, as my crashing right fist unexpectedly unhinged and dislocated his lower jaw. Of course it was a lucky punch—a dog’s jaw muscles are some of the strongest of any creature its size.

The yelping would-be-assailant collapsed in a thumping crash to the ground on his broad furry side; his dislocated jaw stuck over a good inch to the right. His pain must have been enormous. However, I wasn’t done with him. I roared obscenities at the stricken animal and kicked and stomped its struggling body as it lay writhing in agony. I really wanted to kill it and I was dead set on accomplishing that task when a plaintive voice in the most exaggerated southern black accent I’ve ever heard interrupted me.

“Whet yo dewin ta MAH dohhhg?”

It was the fallen dog’s owner, an ancient black woman in curlers, slippers and a bathrobe, and none too happy with my treatment of her “pet.” Anyway, her question brought me out of my berserker rage and back to my senses, slightly.

At that moment I was surprised to hear cheering and horns honking from a multitude of cars. All four lanes of traffic on the busy avenue had halted upon seeing the huge animal bearing down on me. The drivers must have been amazed and probably relieved at how quickly the tables had turned. Many of them, broadly grinning, pumped their fists at me, while others waved, nodded approvingly and gave me the thumbs up. Some had even gotten out of their stopped cars right in the middle of the avenue, probably to lend assistance if need be. Still stunned, I just stared at them and gave them a feeble return wave. I can imagine the stories told around some dining tables that night.

Adrenaline still coursed through me like a freshly injected speedball, and turning back to the old woman, I answered her loudly and angrily, “I hope I hurt your damn dog BAD lady, because he was trying to KILL me! You’d better keep him chained up, or next time I WILL kill IT!”

I spun around and continued my run, not waiting for her response. I really didn’t care what she had to say anyway.

But as I said, there were lots of mean dogs in North Carolina…

Later that winter, on a bitterly cold and windy day, I found myself jogging in a part of Goldsboro where I’d never been before. It was semi-rural, with widely spaced houses built well back from the road. Passing a split-level, I heard before seeing an outraged dog, another shepherd, which soon set itself upon me. It had charged, barking irately the entire time, across a large expanse of snow-dusted yard; and it paused only momentarily before trying to bite my legs through my sweat pants.

I tried kicking at it while continuing a running escape, but it was almost impossible to make any headway, so unremitting were his snapping attacks. I could hear the alarming sound its teeth made as it repeatedly strove to snap them shut into me. In a moment my baggy pant legs had several tears and rips from the effects of the toothy attack.

I had retreated to the center lane of the road when lucky for me a Good Samaritan in a sedan slowed down and yelled at me to use his car as cover. It worked. I was able to keep the slowly moving vehicle between the dog and me until I could make good my withdrawal. The man saved me from a sure mauling. I gave him a heartfelt high sign as he drove away.

But, now I was pissed! I wanted revenge. I planned another run for the following weekend that would once again pass by that spiteful animal. Only this time I was determined to turn the tables like I had done with the first evil shepherd. I owned a knife that looked like a stick when sheathed. The 5-inch blade was sturdy, pointed and sharp and it had one good cutting edge. For a week I dreamed of exacting some payback. The idea that I should have to suffer an assault while running on a public road was not something I was willing to accept, from neither man nor beast. That dog would have to pay—by bleeding, and hopefully, dying!

My goal was to draw it in close before jumping on it, grappling it and stabbing it repeatedly in the chest and head. I figured I was going to take some damage as well, but I accepted that as part of the wages of war, a war that it had started and one that I was “doggedly” determined to finish.

It was a Sunday afternoon; I found myself almost to the house of my four-legged enemy. I slowed down at the place where its owner’s yard first came up to the road and pulled out the knife. Removing the wooden sheath, I hid the knife up along the inside of my left arm. Then, I heard the dog take up its mad bark and start its charge.

‘Yes! Here he comes!’ I thought eagerly. ‘Come on! Come and get your medicine!’

I slowed down even more, feeling a jolt of thrilling energy surge through me. I was ready for Freddy! ‘Come on Freddy!’

Then, suddenly, it stopped. I glanced to my right to where I thought the animal would be and it wasn’t there. The dog had stopped about 20 feet from me and was just barking weakly, refusing to come another step. I stopped and turned toward the now cowardly beast.

“Well, come on you piece of dog sh*t!” I yelled goadingly. I even took a step or two out onto the brown winter-dead grass of its yard, but it only retreated. It looked like the same dog, but it sure didn’t act like the same snarling snapping creature of only a week earlier. My long imagined fantasy of being locked in a death struggle with it was not to be. I think I was disappointed AND relieved, maybe mostly relieved.

The shepherd must have smelled or sensed something different about me. I had never shown it even a glimpse of the knife, but it knew something was up for sure. I carried that knife with me on all my runs for the rest of my Air Force tour in North Carolina, always hoping that I might someday get a chance to use it. Only problem is that every time a dog seemed willing to come at me it would suddenly stop its attack, look confused and skulk away.

Well, maybe not every time….

There WAS another terrifying time that my little sheathe knife would have done me very little good. It was a balmy Saturday morning, and I had asked a buddy to drive me out to a State park some 15 or 20 miles out into the countryside so that I could run back on the straight.

Less than three miles into my return and I saw something in the distance that made me sick with dread. Way off to my left, out across a field planted thick with tobacco, was a pack of about a half-dozen farmer’s dogs. I could see that at least two had the distinctive shapes of Dobermans, while the others were just BIG.

‘Oh SH*T! I’m dead!’

I pulled the sheath off my knife, but I knew it wouldn’t do squat against a pack of those baying wolf-like creatures. My only chance was to GO! I kicked into the fastest gear I had and began to pump out a fear-powered mile that I hoped would put me out of whatever territorial range they had.

I knew I couldn’t outrun them if they were determined to catch me, even though they did have a very steeply inclined slope to negotiate to get to me. I looked down that slope to my left and saw them begin to lope across the field in my direction. Apparently they had done this before, because they weren’t running directly at me, but were angling towards the place they figured I would be once they got to the road. Smart creatures.

I put my head down and ran like the wind. I continued to take the occasional leftward glance as they drew ever nearer, but stopped looking for them after a half-mile when I came to the end of the expansive tobacco field where a long patch of thick woods crowded both sides of the two-lane country asphalt. I could still faintly hear their excited howls, but I began to relax when I realized they probably weren’t going to catch up to me. Nevertheless, I continued a fast pace until I was sure I had gotten away. Thank you God!

Anyhow, running in North Carolina is like that—lots of big mean dogs with rows of sharp teeth in their loudly barking salivating mouths.

Run there at your own risk—and if you must be on foot, carry a weapon.

Believe it or not, as a kid, I loved dogs. That changed when, as a youngster, I took up the “double dog” whammy of both running AND delivering newspapers. From harsh personal experience I can say positively that dogs don’t like runners and they HATE paperboys even more. So, I learned to hate them right back. In fact, when it comes to dogs, we’ve been mortal enemies for a long time. Of course I realize that there are a lot of dog lovers in the world, and if you are one, lets agree that if you keep your animal away from me then I won’t fight to the death with it!

I should have entitled this post “Man Bites Dog!”