In March, I finished a book about my childhood. Now, I'm starting one about my college years, and thinking about those days.
I went to grad school at U of A in Tucson. In those days, I used to jog for exercise. Here's one jogging story:
On weekends, I used to jog in the light-industry area northwest of U of A, towards Grant Avenue, and beyond. Strange stuff out there.
For example, there was a welding yard full of metal artifacts, surrounded by a formidable fence, with several large Doberman guard dogs standing guard. They raised a huge ruckus every time I ran by. I taunted them by running back and forth right along the fence, just a few feet away from them, sending the dogs into an unholy frenzy of barking. I’d insert my hand through the fence, then quickly withdraw it as they lunged for an attack. We did this on weekends, for months.
One day, I sent the dogs into their customary howling fits as I jogged past, but I suddenly stopped short. The gate to the yard was wide open! Someone was inside! The dogs could easily reach me! And I could reach them! I was at their mercy, as they were at mine! All antagonists were now uncomfortably exposed.
I quietly walked past the wide open gate. For their part, just feet away on the opposite side of the property line, the powerful guard dogs did the same. Then I resumed jogging and dodging, and they raged in fits once more. Because, after doing this for months, the dogs had come to know me. They didn’t fear me; they just wanted our little game to continue.