Dog Park Incident...

There was an incident at the dog park yesterday afternoon and I am a wreck of nerves about it!  I was going for an afternoon stroll in the dog park, patiently waiting for literary inspiration (as writers are wont to do,) watching my canine companions gayfully frolick and romp about in the off leash area, as dogs are wont to do.  So out of nowhere comes this - I hate to use the word to describe a fellow human being - but this asshole.
 
Now, I didn't see him first, I saw his big German shepard come bounding out of the bushes ahead of him.  He takes one look at my puppy bear and right away starts trying to hump!  She gets away, but he chases her down and keeps trying to mount her. She is clearly frightened. I am running after the two of them, huffing and puffing, carrying a baggie of dog waste and screaming for Penny to come towards me.  I am vaguely aware of a 300lb, 6'3" asshole behind me, running towards them as well, calling to HIS undisciplined mutt to leave my dog alone!

I catch up to them first, reach down and grab a handful of gravel and dust, and throw it in the german shepard's face as hard as I can. He yelps and starts pawing at his eyes while I squat down to comfort puppy bear and smugly assess my work.  This moment is ruined by a 6'3" fat man in sandals who comes storming up and yells "What the fuck you do to my dog, bro?"  It is this moment I realize he is "open carrying" a Glock pistol, as assholes are wont to do.    

Now, I am a sweet and genteel man.  But a decade of training as a government enforcer of various stripes does things to your mind.  I can't even say the word "guns" with stammering these days.  He turns around to call to someone, and like I'm on autopilot I quickly and noiselessly slink up behind him and slam the web of my right hand, fingers extended, to where the receiver of his Glock meets the slide. This knocks asshole off his balance. My fingers curl around the grip and I pull the weapon clear of the holster, and sidestep away bringing the pistol facing the ground into my sternum and covering into a sul stance, baggie of shit between my fingers, swinging like a pendulum from my left hand.   

Time stands still.  To my horror I feel myself grinning like loon.  A lot of kind dog park denizens are looking at me, deciding whether or not to be frightened.  I know the second one of them screams they're all going to panic, and I will forever be known as the man who ruined a pleasant October evening at the dog park, which is not fair because I wasn't the one who started this whole thing.  Penny will be a dog park pariah, and I will have to write with a pseudonym.

Asshole regains his balance, and seeing that I am armed, starts fumbling around his empty holster.  His chubby fingers close around empty air, and it dawns on him what has happened.  Then?  Then he has the goddamn nerve to reach out his hand and say "Gimme back my pistol, bro."  I feel an icy, livid rage well up inside me as my brain starts telling me all the wound patterns I can put on him:  The Zipper.  The Stockton Hobbler. Stigmata.  The Failure Drill. The E.T. Split.

But, I am a genteel writer now. So I smile my smuggest smile and breezily throw his little Glock, that psychological extension of his penis, into the river.  When he tries to punch me?  I sidestep and smack him between the mouth and nose with the flimsy bag of dog waste in my left hand. It bursts and covers us both with lukewarm, softer than usual Howie-do, with the difference being that enough of it goes up his nose and into his mouth that his startled gasp has him choking on dog poo.  I took my dogs and ran back to the car as everyone started whipping out their cell phones to either record the incident or call 911.                

I have since been sitting in my rocking chair at home, sipping chamomile tea, cuddling puppy bear covered in an old quilt trying to bring my stress levels down to where I can be whimsical and creative again.  Worst part is I can't go back to the dog park until the heat is off and there is only so much October left.  At least I can take small comfort in the fact that asshole will never, ever be a writer.  Or that I also took the keys to asshole's BMW (they fell out his pocket when I snatched his weapon,) and threw those in the river while he was melodramatically hacking and gagging on poo, drama-whoring it up for the small crowd that had gathered.