‘That “MacDougall Lewis” is an anagram for “Sic a dog: maul well”?’

‘…’

‘…’

‘How long have you been working on that?’

‘Pretty much all night.’

‘It’s that by this time in high school, MacDougall’s started doing Tae Kwon Do: a blue-belt already, real little bad-ass in training. I mean he spends every afternoon after school in his backyard, punching posts for the numbness—got these knuckles like bamboo shoots—and doing flexibility stretches for his high kicks.’

‘Great. Got it. Jean-Claude van Dougall.’

‘Well the point is that, with wild dogs, the what-if scenario doesn’t terrify him. Even if they attack him all at once, he figures he gets some bites, some blood loss, flesh wounds at worst. But he’s sparred with multiple assailants down at the dojo. He knows that he can roundhouse kick the dogs or karate chop their spines or pry their jaws apart until they snap or snap their necks, if he has to, in the fantasy. It’s an action movie for him. He loves it. Dogs are flying off him, he may as well have nunchuks. But with domesticated dogs it’s different. That’s how he explains it to me. He says that his fear is more emotional or even philosophical in nature than strictly speaking physical. He’s afraid of being attacked not because of the injuries he might sustain, but because of all the emotional and even philosophical implications that that attack would entail.’

‘So in the case of the retriever.’

‘In the case of the retriever, it’s integral that the owner remain oblivious. If she notices the dog’s agitation at all, she has to misinterpret it, scanning the street for a squirrel or cat or something. Because another intrinsic component of the horror of the fantasy is how alone MacDougall and the dog are in their standoff. The owner can’t have the slightest idea that this dog, her pet, has just turned on a primal or an atavistic dime, metamorphosing itself into a man-eater on its master’s behalf. That’s why she keeps such a flimsy grip on its leash.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Because the next what-if in the fantasy is obvious: what if the dog—maintaining spine-chilling eye contact with MacDougall at this point—lunges forward in one sudden, terrible motion, tearing the leash outright from the old woman’s hand? That’s what fills MacDougall with dread. What does he do? All it seems he can do is remain standing stock-still on the sidewalk, watching in terror as the dog—sprinting toward him now and barking—churns the ground with its galloping legs. There would be no point in running, MacDougall knows, for the retriever would retrieve him in seconds. His flight would only provoke the animal, frenzying it to a keener bloodlust. He says he’s conducted this fantasy countless times with countless breeds of dogs—anytime one passes him in the street, his mind automatically executes the thought experiment—and that of all the different versions of the fantasy, for him the absolute worst and most nightmarish version, the only time the fantasy ever left him cold with sweat, was when he decided to go ahead and try to flee. Says he’s never even bothered budging a foot since then. Doesn’t even let himself consider it.’