Fun fact: Eighty percent of ginger cats are male.
It was finally spring and my husband and I planned to take advantage of it. The front door stood wide open, making the porch of our century-old home even more inviting. Clean outdoor scents would replace the mustiness inside.
I rubbed my lower back and surveyed the flowerbed. Where weeds hadn’t overrun the plantings, slugs had done their damage. The greenery was as lacey as a grandmother’s doily. It certainly wasn’t the sturdy ground cover I’d expected. It would take many more hours on my knees to bring this area back to life after our long winter.
“Do you want to break for a few minutes?” My husband stood across the entry path, attacking another area of the yard with well-worn clippers. A few stray twigs and leaves clung to his jeans.
I squinted up at the sun, its rays beating down on us, clear and bright.
Why not? I rose and stretched, my spine shouting in appreciation as I breathed in the fresh spring air. A cup of coffee or a soda on the porch would suit me fine. “Sure. I’ll grab us something.”
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed movement. I turned to see a dog at the end of the street, moving at a steady clip in our direction. I glanced at my husband and shrugged. Another mutt running loose in our town would never make the news.
“Let me get it this time.” David headed for the steps to the porch.
The dog, a young Pit Bull, came nearer, his pace never slowing. Fur the color of caramel covered his rippling muscles.
I’ve met several dogs of that breed, sweet as honey, but something about this one made the hair at the nape of my neck stand on end. He was aching for a scuffle. I could almost taste his aggression.
He passed the next-door neighbor’s house, as if on a mission, his hackles raised.
Dave had reached the top of the concrete steps leading to our front door. His relaxed posture told me he had no idea what was going on.
My breath caught in my throat, strangling any warning I could have offered.
Two seconds later, the beast scaled our stairs as if he owned the place, confidence and power exuding from his frame like a boxer in the ring.
I screamed, a terrified yell, which caught Dave’s attention. He stood frozen at the open doorway as the dog rushed past.
The last time I’d checked, our cat Johnny, who we had rescued from a litter of kittens dumped in our neighborhood, was resting in a quiet corner of the sitting room, near the fireplace. He was dozing in his favorite overstuffed chair, shedding tufts of vivid orange fur on the white upholstery. I’d long ago given up on protecting that piece of furniture from cat hair.
I raced to Dave’s side, eager to protect sweet, strong, not-terribly-bright Johnny. But we were too late. The dog stood stock-still now, just within the entry, a low growl rumbling from deep within its chest.
From the overstuffed chair, I heard fast movement, like a soldier snapping to attention. And a moment later, there he was — Johnny! He hesitated for a long moment and then hissed from the seat’s edge, his arched back making him appear half a foot taller.
Before I could blink, he’d dropped to the carpet, a snarling, moaning sidewinder of four-legged trouble.
My heart skipped a beat as he sidled up to the stray dog, whose expression changed in a flash. This aggressor now resembled a frightened puppy.
My gaze met my husband’s. His raised brows said it all. We weren’t going to get into the middle of this mess. We’d clean up the aftermath, if need be, but only a fool would try to break up a battle of this sort.
Still in full attack position, Johnny advanced, each slinking step slow and deliberate. His eyes were slit like Clint Eastwood’s in Dirty Harry, I’m convinced he transmitted a thought to the mutt: “Go ahead, punk, make my day.”
Without warning, Johnny sped faster than I’d ever witnessed in the direction of the dog, whose cocked head and dropped jaw registered deep concern. Wide-eyed, the dog spun on his heels, tail tucked between his legs. He raced out the entry doorway and skipped the top stair, airborne. Landing on the walkway, his feet didn’t miss a beat, tearing up the lawn as he crossed.
Johnny gave chase in hot pursuit of the invader. At the edge of our property, he stopped and sat, glancing back at us.
The Pit Bull continued running until he was out of sight. We never spotted him again.
Johnny straightened his back and swaggered into the house, reclaiming the cozy spot on his chair. Like a gunslinger in an old-time western, I half-expected to see him blow smoke from a pistol’s barrel and tuck it back into its holster.
I sighed. It was over. Dave nodded. “Until the next exciting episode. Right, Johnny?”
Johnny gazed at us and blinked once, slowly. A few seconds later, he tucked his head beneath a paw and curled up for a well-earned nap. Our little toughie.
He’s small and has no superpowers to speak of, but he gets the job done when it comes to protecting us. Dave and I have a new hero.
~Heidi Gaul
