She makes her eagerness to explore known, my poodle does. Not allowed to run free down the street without a leash, my poodle strains to walk faster and pulls harder than usual. But she twists, shakes her head---then slips out of her collar, bounding over the rusty metal fence at the entrance of the dark alleyway some twenty feet from where I stand. In the flickering yellow light of the street lamps, she thinks of her favorite toys, like tennis balls and frisbees, when some mangy felines---ten or a hundred, she can’t be sure---emerge from the shadows, baring their chipped teeth.
Hissing and growling like they haven’t been fed in three days, they try to intimidate by puffing up, and my poodle, ever naive, walks toward the hoard. They break from their positions, leaping on her. They scratch her with long, razored claws and force her to the ground. Then, tails flicking, they get off and form a circle around her. Lying in the gravel, she’s still keen to instinct. When the cat in front of her turns its head for a second, she jumps up, hurdles through the barricade of felines, and sprints like lightning for the fence. When on the other side, she licks her wounds and hobbles back to her leash.
Because I’d thought she disappeared, her whimper causes my heart to skip a beat. Tail between her legs, she can barely walk. Looks at me with guilty, hurt eyes. Shh, I say. I carry her home, clean her up in the bathtub, and prepare a pile of blankets for her to sleep on. Ever since, I walk with some fear, keeping the leash tight and check around corners, listening for the patter of paws, the awful hissing, bloodthirsty alley cats out there ready to tear my poodle away from me.
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