My general conclusion is that humanity’s earliest mistake was to invite feral wolves into our homes and think that they would bow to our whims. I see dogs as wild animals, still not to be trusted. I was attacked and harassed by dogs beginning as a toddler and have been jumpy around them ever since. I still switch sides with my friends while walking, to put their bodies between my own body and a potential dog attack. To me, dogs are primarily a threat. Take a look at their jaws and tell me we haven’t invited killers to share our civilization. I’m not calling dog lovers idiots, I’m just saying they’re a little delusional.
The city is the last place I expect to meet dangerous beasts, but I have run into some truly terrifying dogs in New York. I work as a carpenter for a high-end interiors company. One of our best clients is a kind, middle-aged multi-millionaire, an Upper West Side mom who regularly hires us for small jobs around her apartment. “Small jobs” here is a relative term: we’re talking $10,000 to $30,000 worth of work. This is pocket change when your place is crammed with capital-A Art: Andy Warhol in the entry, Jasper Johns used to cover the fuse box, Ansel Adams partially obscured by a window shade.
My boss likes art and raved about the collection. I was excited. A kind lady with great art sounded like a fine way to work for a few days. So when I padded through the laundry room and into the open kitchen at 8:30 a.m., the last thing I expected were the three gigantic monsters turning to size me up. One was a savage, crumpled-up bulldog, its pigeon-toed legs like weight lifter’s arms. But the other two made my stomach plummet. I don’t know their breed. Dire wolf? Werewolf? Hellhound? Whatever breed has hulking bodies as tall and broad as my chest and heads like anvils. These were beasts with something to prove. They could have been the leads in an all-dog remake of “The Wrestler.
They stood tensed and quivering on the verge of some action, their claws clacking and scraping on the tile floor. The owner was behind them and stepped forward with a limp. Great—she’s slower than these demon dogs. We’re all going to be eaten. I scanned for exits as I tightened my hand around my tool bag.
“Hi, I’m James.”
“James! Hi, we’ve been expecting you.”
We couldn’t say anything else before the dogs cut the tension. Their heads dropped and they bellowed tremendously, barks like band saws fighting through corrugated steel. I cowered against the wall between a phone and a Dutch Master sketch, estimated value: unknown. I smiled but it was hard when I realized that I hadn’t told my loved ones how much they meant to me and I hadn’t spent enough time outdoors and I hadn’t destroyed my diaries and I desperately wanted more time.
The dogs kept hopping forward on all fours, stomping the ground. Each time, I shivered back and my elbows clattered against the wall. The client decided this was the moment for some quick facts:
“They’re former attack dogs! They’re trained to attack strangers!” she shouted. “They’ll calm down when you calm down! Calm down!” So these dogs were worse than wild; they were trained to be better killers than nature had made them. She repeated the phrase “calm down” a few times, as if shouting this would pummel me into tranquility.
“Oh, attack dogs, neat.” My small-talk bullshitting skills sailed above the fog of my fear.
None of us were calming down. So finally the owner put her hands on her hips and disappointedly conceded that it would be better to not have a dog attack over Tuesday’s breakfast. The beasts were moved into another room with a “tsk-tsk.” I spent the next forty minutes of work on edge, tightening the seat on a toilet until my hands stopped shaking.
I’ve been back to this apartment a few times and the dogs haven’t forgotten me. Each time they’ve seen me, they’ve charged me. I’ve been chased down a hallway as the dogs poured sinisterly around the corner like the elevator blood from “The Shining.” I’ve waited anxiously to be escorted from one of the apartment’s bathrooms, knowing the beasts were prowling around. I’ve tumbled over my own tools because one of them sneezed behind a door I was painting.
What’s most disorienting about having to run and cower from these ex-attack dogs is their juxtaposition with such a ritzy apartment. It’s almost offensive to be surrounded by millions of dollars in art while grappling with my Neanderthal brain’s fight-or-flight response. I may be surrounded by the best among humanity’s creations—espresso machines, Pop Art, dimmer switches and heated floors—but it all becomes secondary to my fear. Like a roof leak with fangs, these domesticated wolves are a grim reminder that nature will find me wherever I hide.
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