Today we met the black-and-brown hound dog at the newspaper man's place again. Ok, a little background here. The newspaper man is almost 70; he's always at his mini store selling candies and newspapers. Occasionally, the hound dog would be resting near him.
There was once we walked past them, and that mad hound dog came dashing with his upper lip curled, showing his yellowish but sharp teeth. It scared the hell out of me; and Giorgio was still a puppy then, so he hid behind me. Being the useless me, I ran further away leaving him behind.
I'm not sure if it belongs to the old man, but I presume if it is, he would have done something about it. Least yell at him or something. But he didn't.
Here again, the hound resting near the newspaper man's table, was barking from afar. He stood up almost immediately once he saw us approaching. My (maternal) instinct was to pick up the longest and fat-est stick around. He stopped the moment he saw the stick on my hand, but the incessant barking did not stop. For a moment, I was thinking, if he really come over again, am I being too cruel to beat the hell up? He might just be the old man's best companion (or even protector, since it's quite deserted where he was selling the papers.)
Anyway, I didn't want to try my luck today. I might be too softhearted and got myself bitten. Or even Giorgio injured. I kept the fat stick infront of us at all times, swinging it time to time to frighten the hound. People around were starring at this mad woman swinging at stick, about 10 metres away from the hound. But least, it worked.
Else I would probably be cursing and swearing on my blog, with one hand and several teeth-marks on it.
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