Lethal Practice by Peter Clement

break Muffy’s rush.
    My throat burned from yelling and I was breathing hard as much with fear as from exertion. They were almost at each other.
    Twenty-five yards.
    I stopped running, took a deep breath, and let out a roar as loud and fierce and full of rage as my poor vocal cords could muster.
    Muffy whirled around to see what beast was coming at her from behind. The two dogs, still ten yards away from her, also stopped, but as their heads went down and I heard their low growls continue, I suspected they’d been more surprised than frightened.
    “Get back here, you dumb dog,” I screamed at Muffy, trying to shock her into obedience. It worked. Her tail, head, and ears drooped, and she slunk toward me, looking nervously at the growling animals behind her.
    They didn’t run off, but they didn’t approach either. They started circling us, keeping their heads toward us, showing their teeth, snarling.
    When Muffy got close enough, I grabbed her collar and pulled her to my side. Being careful not to hit her, I began twirling her leash over my head like a whip, the metal clasp on the free end.
    “Get away! Get back!” I screamed at the circling Dobermans. I accelerated the circling of the leash over our heads until I could hear the metal tip whistling through the air. Muffy stopped cowering and began lunging and barking at the dogs. It was all I could do to hold her with one hand and circle the leash with the other.
    Suddenly one of the dogs skirted around behind us. Muffy tried to turn and face the attack, but her collar twisted in my hand, choking her and knocking me off balance. I managed to direct the twirling leash down and behind and felt it connect. The incoming animal screamed in rage and pain and continued to yelp as it pulled back and joined its partner. I was getting ready for them to come at us again, but above the growling and barking, I heard the sound of a whistle—like a policeman’s or a referee’s—come from way up the green.
    The Dobermans immediately broke off their attack, spun around, and raced away toward their master as fast as they had come.
    I held Muffy tightly. She was trembling as she barked, straining to give chase.
    “No, Muff, good girl, they’re gone. It’s okay,” I reassured her, though I was by no means certain we were out of danger. Trying to calm my own shaking, I watched the two distant shapes run up to the figure and begin their previous pattern of prancing around its feet.
    I wanted to scream, “You fucking idiot!” but I was terrified the dogs would be sent after us again. I quickly connected Muffy’s leash and started back up the slope from where we’d come. She resisted, whined, and stood on her hind legs to get a final look before we left. When I next glanced back, the green was deserted.
    All the way home I kept checking over my shoulder and listening for the padded sound of galloping dogs on pavement. Muffy, on the other hand, trotted along beside me, happily sniffing out the bushes as usual, our ordeal apparently forgotten. I was not so sanguine.
    Once we were safe in our kitchen, Muffy raced on upstairs to get the best spot in bed. I began to feel anger more than fear, and wanted to report the incident to the police. That idiot had nearly let his dogs kill us.
    I was about to dial 911 when I had second thoughts. What was I going to complain about? I’d been illegally on a private golf course with my dog unleashed and had been chased off. The creep on the green might even have been a night watchman. I knew I wasn’t the only person in the neighborhood to use the fairways as a dog run, despite the property being posted. There even had been flyers distributed door-to-door requesting we keep our animals away. Maybe the owners of the club had finally gotten fed up with warning us and had resorted to letting their security staff scare us a little. It was dangerous and stupid, and the idiot who’d been there tonight ought to be charged with reckless behavior, but I