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Uh-oh. Dog. Nice dog. Uh-oh, backing up to the car door. Grrrrrrrr. Some shepherd mix. He emerges from the blackness of the open garage door hole. Easy, boy. Don't show any signs of fear now. Snap! He gets my right leg, low, at the ankle, shakes it. Jesus fucking Christ, I holler and the door on the front of the house opens to reveal a silhouette framed in a rectangle of yellow light. The silhouette yells. The dog is not distracted, and I club it over the head with the pizza bag. It backs off. Now it hears its master, runs toward him, runs away, approaches again and is kicked hard in the face. I sink down beside the car, weakened. Thank God it's winter and I have leather Sorrels on. I lift the pant leg, yank off the boot. No blood, but tomorrow there will be a wreath of blue bruises. I put the boot back on, upright the hot bag, and walk towards the door. The man doesn't even ask if I am all right. Here's your fucking pizza all upended, I think, but say nothing and notice instead how the width of his smile is precisely equal to the ribbed front of my own boot.