Chapter 8, Blog 2
By Chuck Wells As Told To Ray Hochgesang
One of a hundred million negative thoughts weaseled its way in through my firewall. They always do. They’re worse than malware.
… could THIS be a one-time deal … just asking …
Like Bob Beamon’s 29-foot-plus long jump in the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City? Twenty-nine feet is nothing today. But in ’68, it was like someone beside the cow had jumped over the moon. Some said it was the thin air. Some said a mysterious gust of wind carried Beamon a few extra feet. Some said it was a burst of …
All I know was … The barking dog jumped. My adrenal glands pumped.
No rocket scientist need apply. As long as I had run around the block, I didn’t see that beast. He would be hard to hide, too. I never saw any dog. Whose dog was it? Where did he come from? Was he alien? Or just German? Had he stalked me all this time? Waiting for the opportune moment when I was too tired to put up a fight? Thinking about it made my heart quiver. That dog, he had crazy eyes. The eyes of a demon.
More importantly, did I need to find a new place to train?
… Did you say “train?” Didn’t you just retire? That’s gotta be the shortest retirement in the modern history of track and field …
All right, I didn’t think I could sprint a record quarter mile every time Satan boy tried to put the bite on me. Nobody has adrenal glands like that. But you know what?
This is my neighborhood. This is my block.
That is my street. I paid for that street. Taxes laid that asphalt. My taxes.
“Should I let bow-wow take a nip out of me?” I asked out loud.
… uh-huh, who’s the crazy one …
“Someone owns that monster. Someone with a homeowner policy and a sizable liability provision.”
… hey, Mr. Victim, you’re talking a perfect 10 on the Imbecile Scale …
“With that kind of potential settlement, I could finance my training, stay in the best motels during meets, hire a professional coach. Depending on where the dog bit me, though, it would take a while to heal, especially if it were on my leg.”
… I KNEW IT! You are crazy …
“So what? You really think I’m going to get bitten, so I can stay at the Hilton?”
… WHEW! You had me going …
I plopped on the sofa. I tried to talk myself down, but the adrenaline still trickled. I tried meditating.
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrr … ”
Nope, no use.
Maybe some sex would calm me.
Copyright © 2012 by Chuck H. Wells/Ray Hochgesang