The lead yanks tight around my wrist. Douglas, still attached to the central tether, is jerked sideways with a startled “bawoo.” Muffin, refusing to abandon her standoff with the German Shepherd, digs her claws into the ground.
I turn to grab Daisy’s lead with my other hand, and that’s all it takes. The leads wrap around my legs like some kind of leash-based bondage situation I definitely did not consent to.
What the hell do I do? I’m supposed to call Archie if anything goes wrong, but there appears to be a fundamental flaw in our plan. Calling Archie means having a hand free, and I’m fresh out of free hands. I’m also fresh out of free arms, free legs, and any remaining dignity.
I’m fairly certain that if I let go of anything, at least one dog will end up in a German Shepherd’s mouth.
The German Shepherd and its owner pass us with the serenity of people who have their lives together. The owner gives me a small, pitying smile that somehow makes everything worse.
Muffin, deprived of her nemesis, redirects her fury toward Daisy, who is still straining toward the retreating golden retriever like a lovesick missile. Douglas has given up entirely and is lying on the ground, his wrinkled face a portrait of existential resignation.
I take a deep breath. I’ve navigated corporate crises. I’ve managed hostile board members. I can manage three dogs.
The problem is physics. Three dogs, three directions, one human. The solution, therefore, is to reduce the variables.
I awkwardly crouch, given the lead situation, and scoop up Muffin with my right hand. She’s small enough that I can tuckher against my chest like a furious, wriggling football. Her growling intensifies, but at least she’s no longer anchored to the ground.
That frees up enough slack for me to untangle my left leg. I give Douglas’s lead a gentle tug, and he heaves himself upright with the enthusiasm of a man being asked to do overtime on a Friday.
Daisy is still pulling, but with Muffin contained and Douglas mobile, I can at least steer us toward a bench that’s mercifully empty and manage to loop all three leads around the armrest.
I extract my phone with trembling fingers and call Archie.
“How’s it going?” He sounds far too cheerful.
“I need help.”
“What kind of help?”
“The kind where you tell me how to stop three dogs from simultaneously losing their minds.”
“Ah.” There’s a pause. “What triggered it?”
“A German Shepherd and a golden retriever. Muffin chose violence. Daisy chose love. Douglas chose to lie down and accept death.”
“Okay, here’s what you do. You need to yawn at them.”
“What?”
“Yawning is a calming signal in dog language. It’s contagious for them just like it is for humans. If one of them is getting overstimulated, a nice big yawn will help bring their energy down.” He demonstrates an exaggerated yawn into the phone.
Is he actually serious?
I look at the dogs. Muffin is on my lap, still vibrating with residual fury. Daisy is whining toward the path where her beloved golden retriever disappeared. Douglas has his chin on the ground, ears puddled around his head like a furry surrender flag.
“You want me to yawn,” I say flatly. “In public. At dogs.”
“Trust me,” he says.
I look around. A woman with a pram is watching me from a safe distance. An older man on the nearest bench has lowered his newspaper to observe the spectacle. I have never felt more ridiculous in my entire life.
But I also don’t have any better ideas. So I decide to trust Archie Mansley.
I yawn.
It’s a terrible yawn, the kind of yawn an alien would produce if you described the concept to them without ever demonstrating.
“That was pathetic,” Archie says through the phone.
