Jensen's Dog

Jensen’s dog wasn’t very big. As size goes, some would be inclined to describe it as small. But just like with hot peppers and farts, size doesn’t really matter. That damn dog scared the living crap out of me.
Every other customer on my route that owned a dog either kept them inside, chained up, or they were so benign you hardly noticed them. Some would wag their tail and look at you lovingly, others would ignore you, but Jensen’s little beast was entirely different. It was never tied up, or in the porch behind a closed door. The damn thing was always somewhere lurking, waiting.
The scenario usually played out something like this. After leaving my bike at the curb and grabbing the paper to throw onto the porch I would look around. Nothing, No dog anywhere. Within the first three steps towards the porch a snarling, slobbering bag of hair would appear out of nowhere and rocket straight toward me. It may come from around the house, under the porch, or from any of the junked vehicles in the driveway, but as sure as night follows day it would come running. Sometimes it would get within an inch of you and nip at your heels or pant leg. Sometimes it would jump and bite at your hands or god forbid your crotch. On occasion it would even draw blood. I was terrified of that hobbit wolf.
“Here is what you do.” My brother Don had the route before me. He had been dealing with the same varmint for a few years. Upon entering Junior High his after school hours were filled with sports, so I inherited the paper route. “ Get something sweet like a hunk of Three Musketeers bar. Hold it out nice and high so the creepy little rat will have to hop up to get it.”
“Where am I gonna get a candy bar?” I couldn’t bear the thought of wasting anything as delicious as a candy bar on that little piece of crap.
“Buy one dumbass, do you want to get rid of this thing or not?”
I guess I didn’t have a choice. Half of a candy bar was a small price to pay in the long run.
“Now once the dog jumps wind up and kick it hard. I mean hard, rights square in the gut!”
“I don’t know Don,” The thought of kicking this dog scared me even more.” What if I just piss it off? I mean, what if it really gets mad and attacks me?”
“Do what you want.” Don started walking away. Turning slowly he said, “But if you want to get rid of it..”

The next day I ran in The Trading Post and bought a snickers bar. I know Don said Three Musketeers, but I liked them too much. If I had to sacrifice a candy bar it may as well be a snickers. Rolling up on the Jensen's house my hands shook. “I can do it, I can do it.” Unwrapping the snickers I held it in my right hand, grabbing the paper in my left. One step nothing, two steps nothing, three steps, all hell broke loose. From under the porch came a black and white, gnarling, growling flash, it was on me like a great white shark on a bloody, dying fish. A strange calm came over me. It occurred to me this is what soldiers on a suicide mission must feel like. They know the dangers that lay ahead, and yet they calmly accept their fate.
Holding the snickers at chest level I felt a moment of Zen. The dog leapt flashing a white underbelly like Smaug over the people of Dale. The scene was like slow motion. My knee came up hard and fast landing perfectly in the fattest part of the belly. The beasty curled up like a tennis ball and bounced once on the hard ground. She slunk away with her tail between her legs yelping and whimpering in pain. I felt terrible. As much as I detested the creature, I didn’t really want to hurt it.
Hearing the screen door squeak I glanced over and saw Mrs. Jensen standing there. Crap, I knew I was in for it. She saw me kick her dog harder than a field goal kicker on a last second boot. Head down, shuffling, I moped over ready for a first class butt chewing and handed her the paper. Slowly looking up at her I saw a toothless smile spread across her face.
“Good kick kid, she won’t bother you again. You just have to show the little bastard who the boss is.”