In even the most genteel of female creatures there is a killer instinct that lies dormant until a certain, momentous event takes place; she has a baby. This biological, primal instinct transforms a woman into a potential fighting machine that would stop at nothing to protect a helpless little creature who has become more important than the universe itself.

I realised this more profoundly the other day when I was at the park with Archer and two big dogs appeared.

Now, an insightful commenter suggested after my last post that it was likely I’d be getting a dog, because the only one who could make Archer smile on that particular occasion was a dog. And he wasn’t even trying. He was just being a smelly, hairy, don’t-lick-my-face-you, pawing, fawning dog.

Cluey readers may have figured out at this point that I’m happy to let others enjoy dogs. Perhaps it’s not the dogs so much as nutty dog owners who think it’s cute and funny to watch their dog bark and jump all over you like…like.. an animal! Cats, on the other hand, are much more pleasant. Dogs lick your face; cats lick themselves. Dogs have to be bathed; cats lick themselves. Dogs jump on you and get you all dirty with their dirty, dirty paws; cats are clean and soft and often smell like fresh towels and bedsheets. Dogs need a walking poop-catcher; cats considerately dispose of theirs in the neighbour’s sandpit. If you don’t feed the dog, it howls; if you don’t feed the cat, it jumps up on the kitchen bench and feeds itself. I could go on. And before you say, ‘Oh, but Cruella, dogs are man’s best friend!’: a) human beings are my best friends, and b) I am no man. I am a Crazy Cat Lady. But I digress.

On this day in the park, Archer and I were minding our own business when these two dogs appeared, sans leads. I looked around expecting to see an owner or two with leads dangling from their hands, but there were none to be seen. It was just me, the baby and two dogs that were much too large and intimidating to be let loose in the neighbourhood park.

As I watched them prancing about, I did my best to will them away, but one of them stopped, mid butt-sniff, and looked straight at us. Like an impala in the long grass, I froze. And I pondered. If I saw somebody being assailed by a vicious dog, I would call for help, intervene with a big stick, throw rocks or do whatever I could at the time to help them. But if a dog so much as looked at my baby threateningly so help me I would have it in a death grip before I even knew it was there. Or perish in the attempt.

I realised this all in an instant, as I stared Wild Rover down with an icy glare. Wild Rover completely ignored me and bounded over to us, tail wagging, and had a quick sniff. And before I could summon my inner Catwoman, he’d bounded off again into the distance, with Mad Fido in tow.

I was glad. I really preferred not to have a fatal confrontation with a dog. And besides, our insightful commenter was on the money. If Archie does want a dog one day… well, let’s just say I don’t want to have knocked off his great uncle Rover.

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