by Joanne Shwed

A typical un-Murphy day in the Bronx. Photo courtesy of Joanne Shwed.

It is 9 a.m. on a hot Bronx summer morning. I stand behind a thick glass entry door in my apartment building. On the other side of this door, eight brick steps lead up to the street. Alone in the hallway, I silently wait for the camp bus to arrive.

Five minutes pass, then ten. No bus. My heart pounds and I start to sweat. I squint to see who might be in the street, but the tall steps obscure my view.

Will he be out there today? Will I have to make a run for it?

A loud horn honks. The camp bus is now on the other side of the street. I have to leave this safe place. I take a deep breath.

I timidly open the glass door and look around. No sign of him anywhere. I slowly walk up the eight steps and reach the top — still safe. I take another deep breath and walk toward the curb.

Oh, no! Out of nowhere, he lunges at me and I panic. I start to scream and try to run, but he’s too quick. He pins me down on the ground, his body heavy on mine. I smell his hot, foul breath. I kick my legs and flail my arms, but he’s relentless.

My mind races and horrific thoughts form: “Is he going to tear my arm off? Is he going to scratch my face? Will I have bruises all over my body? Will he rip my new summer blouse? Does anyone hear me screaming?”

I put all my strength into one last struggle and finally manage to break free. I frantically stand up and run to the curb. Without looking, I step down and out into the street.

Screech! To my right, a car slams on the brakes and stops perilously close to me. I stare, deer-like, into the front windshield and see the horror on the driver’s face.

The driver gets out and screams, “What are you, crazy? I almost hit you! How come you didn’t look both ways before you crossed the street, little girl? Where’s your mother? Didn’t she ever teach you to look both ways? I could have killed you!”

A small crowd forms and everyone is yelling. I slither away and cross the street, still shaking. With trembling legs, I climb the stairs of the bus. I am sobbing uncontrollably, and it takes a moment for the bus driver to console me and sit me down. The bus drives off.

This was the beginning of my lifelong fear of dogs.

Murphy was an all-white bulldog who lived down the block. As luck would have it, his owner walked him every morning at the exact time I waited for my camp bus to arrive. I must have been very young when this happened because Murphy was bigger than I was!

I realize now that Murphy was a friendly dog. I have blocked out the fact that his tail was probably wagging as he leaped toward me and pinned me down on the ground. I also have no recollection of his owner during the incident. Was he or she silently standing there and thinking, “Oh, isn’t that cute? Isn’t it precious the way Murphy loves that little girl?” Nevertheless, to a small child with no pets of her own, it was a horribly scary and life-changing event.

I’ve never quite been able to shake this fear. True, it’s a lot less intense now, but my stomach still tightens when I see a dog. As strange as it sounds, I always put my hands in my pockets for fear of an approaching dog biting them off; if I see two or more dogs inching toward each other, I wait until they’ve passed to see if they’re going to fight.

There are “dog people” everywhere, and I respect that. Perhaps, though, dog owners often forget how potentially terrifying their dogs may be — even “harmless” dogs, like Murphy — to young people such as the girl I once was.

Joanne Shwed is an editor and a book designer. Her Pacifica company, Backspace Ink, helps authors from all over the world organize and present their ideas — both personal and professional — in a book. Visit her website at www.backspaceink.com, or write to her at joski@backspaceink.com.

© 2011 Joanne Shwed