Once in a great while, life throws one of those what-would-you-do-if questions at you that’s so out there, you have to wonder if you could have ever thought to even ask it. Today, I got to answer “what would you do if you and the two small dogs you are looking after for a week were attacked by two pit bulls”.

For the past week, I’ve been dog sitting for some friends. The dogs in question are two smallish terriers, Ace and Gary (clever, no?) whom I adore and generally leap at the opportunity to spend time with. Our routine is a half hour walk in the morning, they get a walk in the afternoon by a trained professional while I’m at work, then a few jaunts in the evening.

This morning, we went out for our walk as normal, padding down the road-hugging “nature trail” the city installed some time back, the air crisp and the ground heavy with dew. About five minutes in, I was abruptly forced to answer the what-would-you-do-if question.

Gary was about ten feet ahead on his retractable leash, Ace closer in on his necessarily shorter leash. I heard some full throated barking ahead, then a man yelling something about grabbing your dogs. Before I could process, two full sized pit bulls rounded the corner of the trail. It was all bullet time after that.

The first dog wrestled with Gary but didn’t fully engage. They snarled and rolled while I yelled and then the second grabbed Ace by the throat and held on and shook in a way that you only see depicted in awful movies. I was paralyzed for a moment and then, apparently, my answer was to drop into the fight, grab the aggressor in a headlock and punch.

To be clear, I can not recommend this course of action. In so doing, you’re placing your own face mere inches from the jaws of something that can and will rip you to shreds should she turn her attention. But adrenaline has its ways and I kept yelling, punching and hyperventilating all at the same time, for what seemed like minutes but was really 30 seconds, a minute at most, until extricating poor Ace from the predator’s grip.

To make matters worse, the owner finally showed up, drunk, wielding a bottle of some awful smelling malt liquor. His primary contribution was to pour whatever he was drinking on the three of us sprawled in the weeds, yell incoherently at his unleashed terrors and stumble.

And then we were separated, probably ten feet between us somehow, the pit bulls impotently grasped by their pathetic owner, ready to attack again, me tangled in leashes and bark-but-no-fight terriers, terrified but unwilling to back down. I exchanged words with the other owner, disgusted and shaking like a leaf. The content went something like “Good sir, perhaps you’d care to explain your actions this morn, as to why you would alight on this journey with such ferocious beasts, unchained.” The tone, however, was rage, bile and an almost Tourette’s-like fixation on the word “motherfucker”. Somehow, I extracted a name from that whole exchange.

We retreated a safe distance, I inspected Ace and Gary for any noticeable damage and, finding none, then called the police. Further survey by the vet found that the boys are quite lucky and escaped without needing much more than antibiotics. The police and animal control are handling the rest.

And here’s the thing: I know that guy didn’t have poop scoop bags with him.