In dogged pursuit

The unnamed roadways on the Island De Vieques pushed northward in steep elevation along the coastline, and I pushed myself up their pockmarked surfaces at as steady a pace as I could muster. 

It was the last day of our acquaintance, and I was saying farewell to the lovely and rugged place with a final jog around the neighborhood. 

It wasn't my first ride on this particular carousel. but I was still wary. 

During the six days I'd been here, I had gotten lost at least twice and encountered a host of curious animals -- everything from hermit crabs and iguanas to wild horses.

Most of them ignored my intrusion once they realized the things I carried – a phone, a beach towel, a pair of sunglasses – contained no nutritional value. 

But nothing frightened me more than the dogs that roamed loose. I had kept a lookout for them, making note of places I'd seen the scruffier ones linger in hopes of avoiding any unwanted surprises. I took pains to scuff my feet on the gravel as loudly as possible, doing so I hoped would herald my whereabouts.

I was having success: 

I startled a shaggy mixed breed that looked like a relative of Little Orphan Annie’s pooch (1982 Movie not the ‘76 Broadway Musical) but he deduced I was harmless and continued on his merry way, nosing through some litter. 

I came face to snout with Old Yeller’s clone and got the distinct message (from his raised hackles and continuous growl) that he did not want me to pass anywhere near his humble abode. So I turned on my zero-drop heels and went along MY merry way.

Then there was the adorable pair of teacup pooches of the fluffy variety all alone in front at the boutique hotel just a few doors down from where I'd ventured out, and where my relatives were still sleeping akimbo. The pups looked comfortable and fetching in their matching outfits and bejeweled collars. But as I approached the place where I imagined their relatives were still checking out, they snarled and bared their teeth. 

Circling back. 

I'll just cut over on the nearest side street and cross my fingers that it will connect with the broader loop. I've already run one and a half miles; one and a half more would scratch the itch. 

It's restful here. The air is warm but not heavy. The hills give and take. The traffic I encounter of the automotive variety never reaches top speed thanks to narrow roadways laden with speed bumps. 

I am at the bottom of a steep hill and jogging upward, having almost completed my second circle when I hear some commotion behind me. 

The jingle of collars, nails scraping the pavement, and barks that travel through deep chests. 

There are two of them. 

I am afraid to look back. Afraid to lock eyes. But I know. They have different gaits and their growls have different pitches.

I instinctively stop running, knowing I can't outrun them but hoping that slowing down will give all of us more time to think. 

But I don't dawdle. I set my sights on the top of the hill and push the pace.

“Stay calm,” said the voice in my head who was telling me what I already knew: a pack of dogs that would ambush me from behind was not interested in playing. 

I feel one of the dogs touch the back of my knee. It feels like the dry lips of a horse flapping at a palm hoping to slurp a handful of something tasty. And then came the pressure. Not a bite. Maybe the swipe of a heavy paw?

I wish I had a rock to throw at their broadsides. Even if I might miss. Chances are fair that at least one of them might trade the chase for an instinctive game of fetch. 

In my escalating panic, the voice of actor Matthew McConaughey comes rushing out of my mouth like it's air from a punctured tire. 

“ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT … I've got no intention of moving in on your action.” 

And like movie magic, once the three of us reached the top of the hill, the dogs turned back and disappeared into parts unknown.

I took off running.