About fifty yards ahead is a house with a high fence. I’m not sure if I can climb it but I have no other choice. I look back at the dog, “Oh shit!” he’s only a few hundred yards away. I only took my eyes off of him for a second, how is he this close already? His barks get louder and louder, and I’ve never seen a dog that looks this angry. I might as well call him Cujo.
Immediately, I sprint toward the fence. I have no clue how I’m going to climb it other than to jump, put my foot out, and hope for the best. Halfway to the fence, I look back and wish I hadn’t. Cujo is right behind me, no more than a few seconds away. That precious second, I know, is going to cost me dearly. If he gets a hold of me he’ll rip me to shreds in no time.
The fence is moments away. With its wooden edges at the top, it was probably designed this way so intruders like me don’t try to climb over.
I take one final step and jump with both feet, reaching for the top of the fence and pulling my arms over. I wince as I feel my upper arm being gashed by one of the wooden spikes. With no time to waste, I pull my right leg over the fence. As I do, my left leg is exposed and Cujo jumps to attack. He makes one big chomp but misses. I can feel the hair and slobber from his mouth graze my ankle. I pull my left leg up over the fence and roll over the top landing hard on the other side. Cujo is screaming his fury only a couple feet from me, but there’s nothing he can do now. The fence is too high for him to climb and it would take hours of scratching and digging to get through. It was clearly designed for dog owners. This realization makes me dart my head around searching for a dog in the backyard but there’s none; I am safe. The fence surrounds the entire backyard and there’s a door to get out, but considering I’m only a few feet from Cujo I don’t see myself opening it any time soon.
“Shut up!” I shout at Cujo, who is still in a constant stream of barking. I feel like pulling myself up to the top of the fence to mock him at my escape, but I don’t want to upset him any more than he already is. He might actually be capable of jumping over this fence as angry as he is.
I look down at my right arm, which is dripping with blood. It goes very well with my leg, which is also starting to bleed again. I press my shirt down over the wound to stop the bleeding. Once that’s in place I investigate the surrounding area. The backyard is pretty typical compared to the other backyards I’ve seen in the area, very small with not much in them. This particular backyard has a small patio and shed where they most likely keep their lawn mower. I make my way over to the shed and much to my surprise it is unlocked. I open the door and, just as expected, see a small riding lawn mower. There’s also a gas tank. I lift it up, “Sweet!” It’s full! I look down to see how much gas this particular tank has. It’s hard to read, but it appears to say five gallons, which is enough to fill up a little less than half of my empty Cavalier. I can only hope the gas is unleaded. If not, I’ll get to blow myself up later.
Besides the mower and gas tank, all that’s left in the shed is a shovel, an edge trimmer, and a retractable ladder. None of these are useful to me except for maybe the shovel. I suppose I should feel guilty taking the gas tank, after all, it is stealing. I should also be concerned my fingerprints are all over this place but I know first-hand from having stuff stolen from me that police officers don’t act like they do on TV — they don’t give a shit. Of the three times my car was broken into, they ran fingerprints exactly zero times. In fact, only once did a police officer even come to inspect the damages. The other two times they told me to fill out an online form stating what was stolen so that they could send it to the insurance company. I could have written down that my life’s savings was stolen and they couldn’t have cared less.
I’m making my way out of the shed, gas tank in hand, when I am met with a nice surprise — silence! I try looking through the cracks in the fence but the wood panels are too close together to see anything. I listen closely but don’t hear any movement or breathing. I can’t imagine Cujo has given up so quickly, especially considering the closest non-human food I’ve seen is a cat that’s forty-five miles away, but I’m not sure how much Cujo likes Chinese food.
After listening for a few minutes, I decide I have to peek out to see if Cujo really is gone. I walk over to the fence door, pull down the latch, and swing the door open. I take a few cautious steps away from the door. Still seeing nothing, I look around the corner and gasp at what I see. Cujo is standing there on the road. He jerks his head up and his expression immediately turns to rage, running after me like he did before. I run to the door, which is still cracked open. Just as I get in and shut the door, I catch a glimpse of Cujo’s evil eyes as his attempt to get me fails for the second time. The door automatically locks in place when I close it, and I am safe once again. Cujo continues barking his fury at me.
“Ha, you little piece of shit. Missed me again didn’t you?”
I suppose I’ve hit rock bottom, talking trash to a dog by myself with nobody around. Outrunning this little monster twice now though is cause for a little gloating.
My happiness is short-lived because I realize for the rest of the day I’m stuck here. There’s two or three hours of daylight left and I’m sure Cujo has no intentions of leaving any time soon. My house is only a few blocks away; if I sprinted it would take about five minutes. If Cujo is around and sinks his teeth in me, I might not make it back alive. Even though I have a shovel to protect me now, it still might not be a match for Cujo. This dog is mean; a shovel to the head might not even faze him. My best and only option now is to wait it out and hope he’s gone in the morning. Then I can make the sprint to my house and pray to God he’s moved on to better things.
That still leaves me here in this empty yard though. I make my way up the patio steps, and approach the back door. Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked! I turn the doorknob, “Damn!” it’s locked. Well this is just great. What am I supposed to do now? Camp in the backyard all night? I’m not one to have any problems sleeping, but if it involves sleeping outside I’d at least like to have a tent to keep the bugs out.
I step down from the patio and see there’s one bedroom window. I could take the shovel and bash my way in. My conscience is sending signals this is wrong, but I’m not going to sleep out here in the middle of the yard all night. Besides, my appetite is back and I’m starving.
I go back into the shed, grab the shovel, and go over my options, making sure I’m ready to commit this felony. If I were a good little boy and tried to make it home, I’m almost guaranteed to find Cujo. That’s something I want to avoid at all costs. I could camp out in the backyard tonight, starving and freezing to death. Or, the third option, I smash through this window and have myself a feast on whatever cereal they have, along with a warm bed to sleep in. The only downside to option three is a moral issue. That and if the owners make their way home and see some weirdo sleeping in their bed, they’d beat me to death with this shovel.
All things considered, I decide option three is worth the risk. With my eyes closed, I make my best baseball swing at the window and hear a loud crashing sound as the shovel successfully blasts through the window. Glass explodes everywhere, but I’ve managed to stay safe this time. If only I had this shovel earlier today.
Unfortunately, I’ve learned that glass doesn’t break quite like it does in the movies — shattering into a million tiny little pieces. Instead it breaks into much larger pieces, which are incredibly sharp and painful. My home-run swing has broken through a lot of the glass, but I still have to spend a few minutes jabbing through the rest in order to get through the window. Why didn’t the shed have a nice pair of work gloves?