Playing catch up here a bit, so far behind I have no hope of catching up on events that took place so I thought I’d share a story with of what happened to me on Monday, March 26th of this year. Aside of some tendonitis in my right foot for a short while this was really the only thing that impaired my training leading up to the Glasshouse 50.
My parents were visiting from the UK and my Dad and I were walking our dog in the forestry (that’s what we call it in Wales anyway). We had stopped for him to take a photograph of something or other (my Dad that is, not Jerry the dog!), I think it was an ants nest or something.
Anyway, before we even knew what was going on, I could hear deep growling and as I looked up, two bull mastiff crosses and what looked like a wolfhound cross were bearing down on Jerry. I think that’s what breed they were as it would have been easy to have mistaken them for a small herd of mustangs given their size.
I was vaguely aware of a red Land Cruiser ute’ about 50 metres away and some clown screaming vainly at the three ‘dogs’ to quit whatever they had in mind while he raced to the scene. Obviously he had decided to take the dogs for a run behind the vehicle and the last thing he expected to encounter was someone else actually ‘walking’ their pooch!
Anyway, for what seemed like about five minutes, but was probably a lot less, absolute bedlam ensued. The pack immediately laid into Jerry and I couldn’t get to him (I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if I did). They were at his throat and belly and I couldn’t see him getting out of it. I was kicking dogs, my Dad was kicking dogs, and even the feral oaf was kicking dogs, “Pick your dog up!” He yelled, “you pick your f*cking dog up!” I yelled back!
Trying to ‘save’ Jerry, I was bowled over for about the umpteenth time and as I rolled on the ground I was confronted with the bizarre scene of the hysterical idiot with the giant dogs that he had absolutely no control over and my Dad trying to beat them off with a thong!
Now my Dad doesn’t wear thongs (flip-flops in Wales) and all that went through my mind was, “where the hell did he get hold of thong?” The futility of beating on a 150kg dog with it never entered my head. Nor Dad's obviously.
Anyway, I finally got hold of Jerry. He’s black and white and his white bits where completely red from the dust as he was wet and thought he must surely have some serious injuries. The dogs were still trying to get at him and all I could see in his eyes was blind terror ... he promptly turned around and bit me in the hand as I grabbed him! He let go when I yelled at him and this coincided with the fuss dying down.
The guy ran off toward his ute' with his dogs following him and a thong missing (ahhh!). I didn’t have the presence to get his number and he was on his way. Besides, I was in agony and my hand was bleeding pretty badly. Also, I thought Jerry would be in serious need of a vet and I wanted to get back to the car. The bugger didn’t have a scratch!
To cut a long story not so long, I spent the rest of the evening in casualty waiting for examination and an x-ray, with an ever swelling hand that the locals of Caboolture assumed was the result of my belting something. This followed by a week off training as I had to strap my arm up to shoulder height.
Funny things happen while you’re on the trail, eh?
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