Pitbulls and Me: There's not enough room on my front lawn for both of us.

The other day I got home from work, got out of my car, and started walking towards my front porch, when out of hell or somewhere a Pitbull came charging at me across my front lawn. It was screaming bloody dog-bark murder at me. I saw fire and Dick Cheney in its eyes and would have wet my pants in fear if any of my bodily systems worked. At the last second, instinct kicked in and I shouted, "NO!", with a quick raising of my arms. The sudden motion startled the raging demon-train of dog, causing it to jump back. That bought me just enough time to leap up my stair case and run inside, slamming the door like a bank vault behind me. I leaned back across my door for a moment, catching my breath. After the feeling of pure fear subsided a bit, I was suddenly filled with intense anger, realizing that most likely that dog belonged to someone out there, probably someone who was out there right then. Maybe they even witnessed the whole thing. I assumed they must know the personality of their dog, and I got madder and madder that they would let it outside with other people, including women and children and the elderly and people who seriously believe that G."WTF"B. has done a pretty good job, walking around. That they would recklessly release their weapon of mass destruction in my peaceful neighborhood did upset me so. I opened my door (more like just barely cracked it enough to fit my mouth out) and yelled into the dark night, "Hey! Keep that thing on a leash!" Man, Sugarhouse is a dangerous place.