On Being Chased by a Dog While You're Running

By: Greg Payne



I was talking to Ray Allen in the Celtics' locker room prior to Game 7 of the Eastern Conference semifinals about the bone spurs in his ankles and how they've affected his running routine, when I suddenly thought to ask him a very random question: "Have you ever been chased by a dog?"

No, he told me, but he has been chased by a number of fans -- fans who've pursued him in the streets and hopped out of cars to get a better look at him. He told me he typically sees an uptake in his speed whenever it happens. The locker room was about to be closed off to the media, so my parting words were these: "Get chased by a dog. Then you'll see how fast you really are."

I've run in road races, collegiate races, and high school races, and on a number of occasions the difference between first and second place came down to a 100-meter sprint with an opponent. There isn't any other feeling quite like it. You've already run whatever the total distance of the race is, minus 100 meters, so you're dead tired. I mean, you are spent. You legitimately hate the world and everything in it. You just want it to be over. It's a self-induced torture. You hate how your body feels, with every muscle burning, with your stomach cramping and contorting itself, with your vision foggy. You feel like your last meal is about to make a reappearance on the track, and even worse, you'll probably step in it and have a gross-looking shoe. And of course the girl on the team you like will be watching this all happen, so now you'll just be known to her as the kid who pukes and steps in it.

But you know it's almost over and you know you want to win, so you bottle some insane mix of will, determination, and, yes, even pure desperation, and you hurl yourself towards the finish line. It's exhilarating, as you're pushing your body well past its breaking point. And you are running so fast. Or at least you feel like you are.

But none of it -- NONE of it -- can compare to getting chased by a dog.



With a sanctioned race, you know it's not life or death. You know there's a start and an end, and, no matter how it unfolds, chances are you're walking home afterwards to keep living your life. There's no inherent danger, or threat. Sure, pride and an individual or team win are on the line, but your life isn't.

But when that pooch comes racing out of that yard, or bursts out of that bush like a tank busting through a wall, an indescribable fear grips you. Indiana Jones hates snakes and Harry Potter hates dementors, but everyone hates dogs when they're coming for you. It's terrifying. And that fear pushes you to speeds you did not know the human body was capable of reaching. Put me on the line against Usain Bolt with a German Shepherd gnawing at my heels and I'll show that man what speed is. Because it's self-preservation you're after, not a first place medal or bragging rights. You get chased down in a race and the dude just goes by you. He doesn't take a machete to your Achilles on the way by. But you get chased down by a dog, barking at you like you just kicked his favorite mailman in the balls, and the natural fight-or-flight instinct kicks in and you better fucking believe me when I say you're choosing flight every time. You're running before you even know you're running. You are not Liam Neeson in The Grey. You are not fighting that dog. You are turning the other way and you are sprinting and you are praying that that dog's left rear leg cramps up before your appendix or some other vital organ bursts like a frog in a microwave.

Because you don't know what that dog's true intentions are, but you're thinking only one thing: This thing is going to kill me. And then probably bury me in the backyard. The same way Air Bud used to bury all those newspapers.

I've been chased by all kinds of dogs: Little dogs, with legs the size of fish sticks; medium sized dogs with flappy ears and surprisingly deep, booming barks; massive dogs that look like they brawl with grizzly bears in their spare time.

One of my most vivid memories comes courtesy of a black lab. I was coming to the end of a pretty rural, tucked away road that opened up onto Route One and a plaza housing a dentist's office, an old furniture place, and a Newbury Comics. I'm maybe 80 meters from said plaza, when I hear it, and hearing it is the absolute worst. Because you hear it, but you don't know where it is. But you know it's coming for you. You hear the bark, or the growl, or the rapid fire feet striking the lawn, and eventually the nails scraping off the pavement. And your senses are all going full bore, like a burglar's breaking into your house and you're the only line of defense. Your whole body is working just to figure out where the fuck this thing is so that you can get away from it as soon as possible.

Of course, you haven't stopped running. Maybe you've slowed a bit to focus more on pinpointing the demon's location, but you're still moving. And then you see it. And for a moment you feel helpless, but then that fear kicks in and you're just moving. It's the cheetah and you're the gazelle. And your job is to move, like you've just rigged a bomb to blow and you have five seconds to get out of a building that will take 10 seconds to get out of.

It didn't get me. I know you were curious. I got away. I heard it, then I saw it, then I peed myself, and then I ran. It chased me valiantly, but I got away (and no, I didn't actually pee myself, you sickos). I've found that dogs won't pursue you for more than 50-70 meters. If you can go all-out for 5-8 seconds, you're usually in the clear. It'll give up. Whether it's laziness, or having the attention span of a goldfish, that dog will lose interest. But only if you create enough distance. If that thing can get to you, it will.

Another one that sticks out involves a hulking beast of a dog. I don't even know what it was. But it was big. And ferocious. Like this thing looked like it hunted saber tooth tigers for fun. Didn't get me, either. Hands-down, the scariest one, though. It's barks are like cannon blasts. They make your whole body go cold. I swear this thing had an electric fence and was just like, "Fuck that, I'm going after this kid." The best part was watching the neighbor watch it all happen, while holding a garden hose. Thanks for the help, bro. Could have sprayed the thing and saved my left hamstring. Jackass.

Speaking of jackasses, sometimes you can't help but laugh when one comes after you. Remember the small ones I mentioned? With fish stick legs? Those come after you, their growls sounding more like a squeaky-hinged door being opened, and you laugh. You laugh because you know it can't catch you. It's tiny little legs are moving a mile-a-minute, but it covers so little ground you can always outlast it with two extra strides. It's no threat, but it does get annoying after a while. Because those ones don't give up, strangely enough. Maybe it's small-dog complex. They'll fight the fights the big dogs don't want.

It's even more annoying when the jackass owner of said dog is watching it happen. Literally standing there in his driveway watching it. Like it's not his dog, but his kid, chasing a plastic bag blowing in the wind or something. I'll look right at him and he'll just look back at me, smiling. "Oh, it's cute, let's see if he can catch him!" Dude! Call off your little rat dog! This isn't fun for me! Jackass.

I don't run down that street very often anymore...

But take notice, people. It does happen. Life-or-death chases aren't just for the movies. So when you're out on those runs, keep the eyes, and more importantly, the ears, open. Because those dogs are out there. And they're coming for you. Every time.