A Dame and a Dog

Ever been chased by a bulldog? I’ve been. Scariest thing in the world, I tell you. Though my brush with the bulldoggy took place in college days, the memory is horribly vivid. Here's what transpired...

It was a lovely evening with lovely lasses pottering randomly around the market place. I was stationary at a popular ice-cream parlor with an old pal of mine, having licks at a cone and eyeing (not to be confused with ogling) playfully every pretty face that managed to catch my fancy.

Right when the pretties were petering out, and the scene was getting a bit boring for my taste, lo and behold! There came an exceptional beauty--the sort that launches a thousand ships--to have ice cream at the open air parlor. Just the type of dame that creams my twinkie, by the way. My heart must have skipped two beats, I must admit, at her sudden but spectacular appearance.

A particularly encouraging thing was that she was chaperoned by a tottery old chap with a pair of tottery legs, who was having to use a prop (walking stick) to maintain 90 degree angle from the ground. Looked to me like her grandpa or something. So, no competition, no authority figures, no messy scenes.

I started eyeing her with the least concealed motive of starting something with her. With Celine Dion chanting her Titanic number in the background unknown, cool breeze blowing briskly with clouds above, and of course, the absence of any kill-joy sort in the vicinity -- as the beauty was chaperoned by a decayed trembling bloke not able to maintain his own right angle above the ground and not by a boyfriend or brother or a mother, the stage was set for a budding love story. I even thought of eventually taking her on a seafaring journey, quite in line with the Titanic number aptly introduced by some good sort pushing just the right buttons from within a nearby music store.

But one fact that I hadn’t considered till the sound 'Grrrr' penetrated my eardrums was that the anomalous twosome was accompanied by my nemesis: a beast of a creature called bulldog. And I particularly noticed its snarl, because, as opposed to addressing the public at large, the bulldoggy desired a word with yours truly in specific.

I never could fathom whether it was the cone in my possession that it wanted to possess or the beauty it was in possession of that I wanted to possess that sparked the hostility in that beast of a dog. The worst thing was that the canine’s leash was with the tottery-legged bloke, as immediately after proclaiming its resentment with me the beast made a dash for my heels, upsetting the balance of the rickety chap -- who was trying his mightiest to maintain his 90 degrees and could not control the beast of seemingly enormous strength -- and in consequence, knocking the tottery chap with an audible thud on the ground.

That crucial move of the doggy set me running as quickly as lightening and with as much velocity as ever was achieved by the fastest athlete in the Olympics. I could have set a record had the setting been in a stadium with measuring meters in the hands of officials. Now that I look back on it, excuse the diversion here, it think it’s a capital idea to set a bulldog behind the athletes. Medals can’t possibly motivate them the way a loose bulldog can.

As I was saying, that move of the beast had me running for my life, and that just about cooked my goose with the chic. But that dame was the last thing on my mind presently, as every single nerve of my brain was busy getting me out of the dog’s way.

Fortunately, I was relieved of further athletics a few hundred meters into the chase, as suddenly that friend of mine, showing outstanding presence of mind and a swiftness that almost rivaled mine, stopped his car in front of me with a door open.

It was all very surreal, sitting in the car now and watching the bow-wow havin’ a go at the bulldog-proof automobile. Now that I was safe in the car, I had a chance to behold the beast. It was one of those brutal hounds that can rip you apart sooner than you can say toodle-oo. Its canine teeth, its growl, mad glint in fierce eyes, the works; it was a ferocious beast, and it wanted me dead. I could tell that. Man’s best friend? Huh, whatever that means.

I couldn’t help thinking that the dog’s bitch must have died the previous day, and its doggy mind was somehow holding me responsible for the demise. Had I been out in the open (out of the sanctuary, my bud's car), no doubt I would’ve gone out of circulation like nobody’s business.

I could see the beauty, with tottery chap in tow, appearing on the horizon by the time my buddy put the car in gear. But I was as far removed from thoughts of cute girls now as a 70-year-old about to have open-heart surgery would be.

By Harpreet Bhagrath

The writer is the Chief Editor at themoneytimes.com

Shoot a mail to [email protected] Or [email protected]