So, this happened.  I walked the big dog, Pepper, yesterday. At the end of our walk, I saw a tall man I'd never seen before with a tiny dog, and the dog was not on a leash. Our paths were about to cross, so I stopped and waited.

"My dog's not friendly," I said.

I didn't want that fluff of fur running over to check out my large dog.

"After you," the man said.

"I just live over there," I said, pointing to my house on the edge of the greenbelt.

"Have a good day," the man said.

I got home, pushed Pepper inside and let Daisy out. She and I play ball in the park daily.

Daisy ran ahead of me, as she always does, and then I heard the man yelling and cursing. Daisy had run into the park, straight for the fluffball.

Imagine a sixty-something woman in slow motion, realizing that her dog is being bad, realizing that she needs to run, her eyes telling her brain to tell her legs to run, and finally running as best as a senior citizen can.

My voice worked better than my legs as I called my dog, over and over.

By the time I got there, the man had been able to scoop up his tiny dog. He continued to curse my dog as I continued to call her. She finally ran over to me. I got her by the collar and dropped to the ground covered with wet grass, holding her heaving body with both hands.

"You need to put down than effing dog!" the man yelled.

I apologized again and again while he stood there and let me have it.

"She' s never done that before!" I said.

My handy woman stepped into my front yard, and I called her to come help me. She is younger and stronger, and she carried my wiggling dog home and into the house.

Flash forward seven hours. Now the man is ringing my doorbell, reporting the vet visit and what Daisy had done to his 5-pound dog (she's okay, thank goodness). I offered to pay the bill. He told me that I needed to put the dog down and told me he would've effing killed her if she hadn't been so fast.

I went to bed and woke up this morning from a nightmare.  I knew the man was right. My dog was now a huge liability.

I called the vet office when it opened at 8:00. I told the phone person that I needed a consultation about my dog and a dog fight. She promised that the vet would call me. I went about my day with my phone at the ready. Neither Pepper nor Daisy got their morning walk or ball-throwing session.

The vet called at 2:00. She listened to the recap and said that Daisy needed anti-anxiety meds to take the edge off. She said that Daisy considered the greenbelt to be hers and that she was showing territorial aggression. She could no longer be trusted off-leash.

Well, duh.

The vet said that I didn't need to put my dog down, but that I needed better management skills. When I told her that my son said Daisy needed better training, she said, and I quote, "No mere mortal could train Daisy."

She's known my three-time rescue Jack Russell dog for four years.

Daisy gets to live another day. She will not, however, be running free in our greenbelt . . .

. . . ever again.