I grew up afraid of dogs.
My family lived in an apartment complex, and one of the tenants had a bulldog, named Pei. When you are a child, a small dog seems large. Pei never hurt any of us. Even so, we, the children in the complex, were all scared of him.
One Sunday, Mom asked Dad to take all three kids out while she cleaned. Dad obliged. He put us in the car and took us for a short ride.
When we returned, Dad parked the car in the spot and shut the engine off. My brother and I opened the doors and jumped out of the back seat.
As soon as I came around the car, I saw him. Pei was loose, and he saw us.
I sprinted. I ran as fast as I could. Behind me, I could hear Pei’s feet stomping the ground and his heavy breathing chasing me. Pei did not have a very affable face, especially when he was running towards you. I ran faster.
I must not have run fast enough. All I remember is that I was on the ground, and Pei was on top of me, licking my face.
After all was done, and they got Pei off of me, we went home. Dad with my little sister in his arm where she remained safely during the whole ordeal and me.
My brother was already inside. When Pei started running towards us, he ran home. Those were the days when nobody locked the front door. My younger brother ran inside and jumped on top of the table, where it was safe.
As for me, I ran nowhere, to the open field. Pei and I could have kept running forever in circles, literally.
My dad said this event depicted his children’s lives.
My brother went to college, got a job, got married and built a house.
My sister stayed home.
And, me. Nobody, including myself, knows what I would do next. Just keep running nowhere, it seems.
So, if I was scared of dogs, how did I end up living with two of them?
That is another story itself…