Attack Dog
In 1998, I was on a sales crew going door to door selling vacuums. Our vanload of salesmen liked to hit the back roads and find our own customers. We got bold and courageous at each door, facing new ways to ward off excuses and rejection. I felt pretty lion hearted when we drove past a yard sign stating, “Guard Dog on Duty.”
“Who wants it?” Terry French, our lead man and driver, quipped.
“I’ll take it,” I said, serious.
Terry looked at me in astonishment. “I was only kidding.”
“I’m not,” I said. “Let me out.”
The other guys were amazed as I swung open the side door and walked toward the house past the sign.
To my horror, a real guard dog, a large Rottweiler, came lunging around the corner, teeth bared and growling fiercely. I ignored my impulse to run. In fact, I shut down all senses toward the animal, knowing he’d sense fear. I blocked him out as if he didn’t exist. The dog rushed me, jumped in my face, but turned back inches away, dropping to the ground. His training told him not to attack if someone didn’t instinctively fling up their hands in defense. I kept walking, never breaking stride, as if I were Hellen Keller and couldn’t see or hear the animal. He charged again, equally as fierce, jumping up in my face but turning abruptly again, sensing no reaction from me.
The third rush was feeble, and he whirled about again, scurrying away, head down, glancing back and still realizing he’d been ignored.
I was at the front door by now. A woman came rushing out, face pale.
“Are you alright?” she said, nervously.
“I’m fine,” I said, “Your dog’s a little embarrassed, but I’m just fine.”
She looked at her dog, then at me. “You’re the first person to ever make it to the door,” she said, a look of shock and amazement on her face. “What do you want?”
By this time my insides were liquefying and the adrenaline was wearing off. I wanted nothing to do with this woman or her dog.
“Well, I’m just out selling vacuums today,” I said. “But I suppose you don’t need another one, do you?”
She shook her head no. I had deliberately declined the opportunity to sell her, feeling nauseous.
As I returned to the van, the looks of awe on the guys’ faces were worth it. I was a champion, a warrior, fearless.
“Do you hear that clanking sound?” Rob, one of the veteran salesmen said. “That’s the sound of John’s balls clanking. They’re obviously made of steel.”
Another Dog Bite
On another sales call, on my own this time, I knocked on a door at Linden
I whirled to kick him viciously. As he and I squared off for battle, the owner appeared at the door and scolded the dog.
I was furious, and left quickly, determined to keep knocking on doors and not give up.
Violated
On yet another sales call, a huge black Labrador Retriever lugged around the corner and nuzzled my crotch with abject familiarity. I thrust his slobbering nuzzle away, only to be re-nuzzled and snout bucked in my private area over and over. To make matters worse, the damn dog put his humungous muddy paws all over my good pants!
Even more infuriating, the homeowner came out and talked to me, acting as if the dog wasn’t there as I fidgeted and tried not to punch the dog in front of him.
He enjoyed my discomfort, to say the least. I guess being a door to door salesman, I deserved it. But as soon as his back was turned, I violently struck out at the big dog’s face, startling it but not enough to deter it. I retreated to the van, feeling dirty inside and out.
Every door-to-door salesman's fear...
