You’re very aware that you live a privileged life. Despite your complaining prowess, you have no real problems of any sort. You’re financially secure, well educated and upwardly mobile, with a safe neighborhood, healthy kids and a happy life. In short, you kinda disgust yourself. Of course, you always try to empathize with others, but you really have no idea what it’s like to be racially profiled, or hated because of who you love, or bombed because of where you live or how you worship. You’re in a ridiculous bubble, utterly out of touch with what it means to feel fear.

And you’re pondering this very fact as you walk your son’s dog through your tranquil neighborhood, down a grassy alley you’ve walked hundreds of times. And you’re asking yourself whether you’re even capable of forming useful opinions about issues that you haven’t experienced, when suddenly an albino Great Dane the size of a dire wolf bursts through the dilapidated fence that pretended to contain her. And she wants to play with your much smaller dog. And by “play”, you mean grab your dog in her jaws, pick her up, and shake the crap out of her.

On her hind legs, this dog is taller than you. And you don’t know anything about her. And while you *think* she’s being playful, you don’t speak dog, and in any event there’s no telling when her play could become something else.

So you grab your dog, and suddenly find yourself playing keep away from an opponent who is faster than you are. And in her efforts to devour your dog, she keeps throwing herself into your body, getting you muddy and keeping you keenly aware of the size of her jaws.

And your dog is snarling and squirming in your hands, spoiling for a fight she can’t possibly win. And you’re in an alley where nobody can see you, and nobody can help. And you have no idea how this will end, but you keep inching forward, step by beleaguered step.

Then you see a tree branch on the ground. And you don’t intend to hit the dog, but you could use the branch to create distance between yourself and your attacker.  And you struggle to pick it up with your left hand while trying to keep your dog secured in your right. And it’s heavy. And every time you use your left hand to do anything, you think of The Old Man And The Sea and the contempt the old fisherman had for his own left hand. And you understand.

And now you’re awkwardly wielding this bulky tree branch with your bad arm while clutching a wriggling package to your chest with your good one. And you feel like a T-Rex trying to swing a baseball bat.

And you aren’t trying to hurt this dog, who clearly thinks this is a game. But you also want to keep her from getting those muddy paws back on your shoulders, to say nothing of those teeth. And the only way you can manage that is to keep putting these irritating branches in her face while you back down the alley.

But you’re inept with this heavy branch in your left hand. And as tense as you are, the funny guy in you can’t help himself. And you find yourself saying in your best Inigo Montoya voice: “I know something you don’t know . . . I am not left handed!” And you shove your dog into your left hand, and snatch the branch up with your right. And now, instead of a meager tree branch, you hold aloft Excalibur! And you are not to be fucked with.

And you continue your slow march home – sometimes backwards, sometimes sideways – all while an eager Marmaduke dogs your steps. And you’re out of the alley now. And the yard guy with the blower stops what he’s doing to watch your absurd parade: you + shrieking little dog + giant dog + the severed arm of Treebeard. And he takes off his safety goggles to make sure he’s seeing this right. And at no point do you consider asking for his help, because you’ve got this in hand. And because of your dignity. And because, in spite of all your progressive politics, there’s a rugged individualist buried within you.

And you finally make it to your front porch, and you fumble to get the door open and shove your dog inside. And you slip inside too, and slam the door. And your pursuer sits on your porch, sad that the game is over.

And somehow, you are too.

And what will happen to this dog, who followed you two blocks to your home and is now camped on your porch? But there’s nobody here to answer your question except your insanely yapping dog and the cat, who couldn’t give a shit, and only showed up to see if the person who opened the front door was your daughter.

Damnit.

So after a few moments, you unhook the leash from your dog, and step back outside, and hook it to the beast formerly known as Carcharoth, but who is now acting more like a Fluffy or a Princess. And you’re rattled from adrenalin, but understand too that you have nothing to fear from this creature. And you walk her home. And you’re inexplicably happy. So happy in fact, that you don’t even lecture the owners for keeping a four foot dog behind a collapsing three foot fence. You simply say “you’re welcome” and return home. And you’re already composing this blog entry in your head.

And you realize that you probably can’t formulate a truly informed opinion on what it must be like to live through the conflict between the Israelis and Palestinians. Or the experiences of a victim of domestic violence. Or why a Scottish person may or may not want independence from The United Kingdom. But you *can* formulate an informed opinion about Great Dane “attacks”.

And they’re awesome.