Death Wish

Saturday, March 29th, Thousand Oaks, CA. On the corner of Rancho Conejo and Lawrence Dr., there is an older man, mid to late 70s, walking with a large, brown, gorgeous Golden Retriever. It’s 7:35 AM and chilly. I'm on a run, and I’m focused. I just raced my first half-marathon the weekend before, and my legs are recovering. They took a beating and are still achy.

As I get closer to the man, I notice that his dog is off-leash: a runner’s nightmare. But the dog seems well-behaved and isn’t paying much attention to anything besides the leaves being brushed by the wind, and I continue pressing on my tender thighs.

The man, wearing a ball cap with wispy grey hairs poking out the side and a khaki jacket, hunched over, sees me and gives me a g’morning nod. The dog’s leash is dragging behind it, and as it hits the uneven bumps in the sidewalk, it makes ching-cling sounds. I am now within five feet of the dog, and it catches me out of the corner of its eye.

The pup then breaks protocol, darts towards me, and begins jumping on me as the old man continues on his stroll.

”Excuse me, sir. Can you get your dog?” I offer, annoyed.

”She’s friendly, ain’t she?” he replied stoically.

”Friendly, but I don’t like to be jumped on.”

”Ollie, come here. Ollie, get down, get down,” the old fart called. “Not sure what the big deal is, she’s not hurtin’ nothin’. You can handle her.”

”You’re kidding me, right?”

I had black, short-tights on, despite the 47-degree weather, and my legs were exposed. The dog had clawed up my right knee, scratched it a bit, and gotten dirt all over my specialty recovery shoes.

”Ollie, get back. Down. Down. Come on, now. Good girl.”

Ollie ran back to her owner, only looking back at me once, while I continued on.

Thursday, April 17th, Thousand Oaks, CA. On the corner of Lawrence Dr. and Sapphire Dragon St. It’s 8:12 AM, and I’m on a run. I spot Ollie and her owner, the old man, once again, leash dragging behind — cling, ching, clink. I have new white, short-tights on, and I don’t want to be jumped on and stain them. I’m also having a difficult work week, and this is my time to zone out and not think. It’s my respite. So I jog across the street to the other side near Brush Oak Dr. Neither Ollie nor the old man has noticed me yet, and I am thankful.

I see an older woman on her morning walk in a tracksuit on the same side of the street as the negligent duo, and she’s getting closer. Obviously, the old man is going to pick Ollie’s leash up before the woman reaches them.

But no, the owner doesn’t call a command to Ollie, nor grab the leash, and Ollie jumps all over the poor, defenseless woman, merely trying to get her daily steps in. She yelps and is inauthentically distraught, but I am empathetic towards her. I’m sort of far by now, but I take note that the man did not offer an apology; only a few grumbles under his breath.

Monday, June 23, Thousand Oaks, CA. On the corner of Lawrence Dr. and Ventu Park Rd. It’s 7:44 AM, and I am on a run. I am training for my next race, a half-marathon, in July. Although I’ve already deloaded on this training program, this is a crucial run. I see the leashless Ollie pissing in the flowers as her owner dilly-dallies, arms swinging, and wearing an untucked polo and New Balance shoes.

I cannot change the side of the street this time because the other side is grass only. My shoes are not made for grass running — they have a full-length carbon fiber plate sandwiched within the midsole foam. The shoes are delicate road runners, feather-light. These are speed shoes for tempo runs.

I pray Ollie is on good behavior. I even say it to myself under my breath: “Be good today, Ollie.”

The man is hunched over, his back exceeding 50 degrees — the clinical threshold for hyperkyphosis, or severe hunchback posture. A healthy thoracic spine curves naturally between 20 and 45 degrees; beyond that, the excessive curvature becomes pathological, often developing into what's known as a "dowager's hump" in older adults. I assume he’s a widow and eats most meals alone.

Ollie saw me, and I called out, “No, Ollie, not today,” as she began peeling towards me. Rocks are kicking up from beneath her paws. She didn’t listen — bad dog.

”Hey, sir, call your dog!” I said. He didn’t hear me. Or pretended not to. They’re both bad.

I shifted to the middle of the road, breaking my pace and stride, away from the sidewalks, shrubbery, and homes. Ollie followed me and began catching up. Once she got close, a car appeared from behind on our side of the street, swerved, nearly clipped Ollie and me, and honked. Not a beep, but a long-winded honk. I dodged out of the way, but it was a close one for Ollie. She nearly went to doggy heaven.

I tried grabbing her leash, but she was too quick for me. ”Ollie, damn it!” I yelled. Her owner was about 25 yards away.

”Sir, what the fuck is wrong with you?” I shouted.

”Excuse me?” he shouted back with attitude. His old-man gait picked up a tad.

I stopped running, bent over in a similar posture to the man's, and put my hands on my knees as I gasped for air. Both from the run and the close encounter.

”Your dog just about got hit by that car.”

”Yeah, because she followed you into the street. You didn’t have to run into the street. You knew she’d follow.”

Aghast, I replied, ”Followed me into the street? Are you joking with me? Do you have a fucking death wish for this dog?”

”Don’t talk to me like that, boy,” he said as he wagged his index finger at me.

“You’re a real shitty dog owner, you know? Totally irresponsible.”

Wednesday, November 12th, Thousand Oaks, CA. On Ventu Park Rd., near the Amgen Biotech campus, Building #31. It’s 7:12 AM, on a run, preparing for my last race before I get my left hip replaced. I see the old man walking, hunched over even further, eyes peering on the ground, Ollie-less.