I open the door and immediately the leash goes taught. I’m not even full out of the house yet and Jack is floating, front paws up, hind legs barely with a toe hold on the edge of the top step of the porch, while he let’s the young couple and their stroller know he has killed before and will kill again.

Not literally. He’s the cuddliest, cutesy-noise-making-while-he’s-the-yawningest, happiest little guy at home - behind the closed front door. It’s just, when he shows up in the world, this is how it goes.

So I lock the door behind us, wave apologetically to the couple who is now moving faster, and curse under my breath while realizing they are walking in the direction of our normal afternoon walk so now I’m going to have to fight my very patterned dogs into starting left instead of right, which we do, but not with out protest and a few warning barks to the couple, via Jack.

Otis, Jack’s older (step)brother, does not care. Just for the record. He’s a character on his own, but this post is to memorialize “the Jack attack.” Otis is an OG. If it were just him, we’d be stopping to get pet by every passerby. Jack will have none of that.

So around the first corner we go and all is peaceful. Both dogs trot, side by side, happily peeing in measured increments, as Otis has taught Jack to do. I know from experience that this means the walk will take at least 5 minutes more than usual because they are in “mark everything” mode. It’s probably because we saw those invasive neighbors and their stroller straight out of the front door. They are on high alert for letting them know who’s block they’re on. I say “just get off my block” in my best Busta voice. The pups nod in agreement.

At the second corner, we have a new offender. Now it’s “regulators - mount up” time. This one is a runner. Luckily, at first, he’s out of dog level eyeshot on the opposite side of the line of cars. But then, probably under a pickup truck, his legs are spotted and Jack jumps into action.

The runner stutter-steps to his side on the bark. He laughs and waves when he realizes it’s 20lbs of dachshund restrained only by my skinny little wrist. I uncomfortably wave back.

Is this how we make friends? By striking fear into the hearts of friendly people?

I could write a book about it. Call it An Introverts Guide to Neighboring. Think the SPCA offers creative writing grants? I make a mental note to look into it later.

Just before the 3rd turn Otis decides he has to poop. It’s 3/4s of the way down an alley-like street. I realize, mid squat, that he’s decided to do this right in front of an open garage door for a yard sale going on in the yard beyond the merchandise-filled garage. My stomach drops. Jack is impatiently looking ahead on the road and hasn’t picked up on the action yet.

“I’ll take this,” comes drifting out of the garage. The dachshund side-eye is real, just saying. He looks and then his whole body shifts. Otis is still pooping, it happens so fast. The fuse has been lit. The bomb awaits its spark.

So now, while I’m attempting to bag up Otis’ business, Jack is letting the entire sale know he is the one who knocks, and their business is under his ever watchful eye. They quietly stare. I tie the bag and then wave. It’s always odd to wave with a bag of poo in your hand at people. It makes me think of those military culture lessons you’d hear on TV - I’m sure I’m offending somebody by doing this.

We round the next-to-last corner and this time it’s a pickup truck. It crossed the street we just turned off of and the driver apparently saw the giant garage sale, and was now k-turning to go back. Jack took offense to this too. He really doesn’t like… moving objects? It’s a broad category. How a 20lb dog thinks he can take a 2 ton truck is beyond me, but he let the truck know.

The driver waved apologetically while we waited, realizing they were in our way. Jack barked unapologetically. I just waved, poop bag in hand, leashes gripped tight in the other.

Finally we were at our corner, making the last turn to head home. You’ll never guess who we saw. Coming in the opposite direction, finishing their walk, right as we approached our house.

They must have done their own version of a neighborhood, because it was the stroller couple, apparently. Jack’s bloodlust returned. He thought we’d already handled them, so to have them show up pushing that carriage again, “I told ya’ll before I kick doors off of hinges” style. Emphasis on “told ya’ll before.” He’d already let them know and they had the nerve to come back?!

They didn’t even look up this time. I waved with the poopbag just in case. They never acknowledged it. Maybe it’s offensive in their country, a few blocks over, I thought.

Back on the porch I fished out my keys and unlocked the door while Jack stood alert on the step. Standing with the house door open I called out, fully accepting of my role in this relationship, proud we had handled the evening walk.

“Who wants a good boy?”

Chipper as ever with his tail in the air, he gave me the sweet little, “Oh yeah - me! I do dad” look and we went inside.