The homeowner stepped out of his front door barefoot, holding a hunting rifle in one hand. He stood at the top of his steps and pointed it at me.
“Get off my lawn.”
Technically, I was not on his lawn. I was on the walkway from the main sidewalk and hadn’t yet reached the bottom of his steps. But I wasn’t going to argue the semantics with him. I dropped my bylaw ticket book and held up my hands, palms out. I could feel my body tighten with fear.
He smiled at that and raised the rifle a bit higher.
I stared at the barrel.
“Get off—”
I dashed away to the right, running along the front of his house, close to the wall. It took me only six steps and I was at the corner of the house. I raced around that and ran along that side of the house.
I heard him shout, “Hey!” but I kept running through his side lawn, then took a left turn to run along the back of the house. I jumped over bits of broken wood and debris near the back door and headed to the other side, where I knew a rundown gate led into the alleyway. This was not my first visit. I was quite familiar with the layout of the yard.
When I got to the alley, I turned right and ran north, away from the house. I didn’t know where the homeowner was, but I didn’t care. There was no way he could have chased me through his dangerous backyard barefooted.
As I ran, I called 911 on my phone, identified myself as a bylaw enforcement officer, and reported the threatening man with the gun.
The sound of sirens in the distance was almost instantaneous.