Jim and I recently
celebrated our fourth anniversary in Chattanooga. We took an early Sunday morning
drive to the top of Lookout Mountain, discovered an obscure National Park site, and meandered through the neighborhoods that crested the ridge. Then we
parked across the street from the venerable Incline Railway depot to catch a glimpse of the spectacular vista. Everything was closed, so it was quiet enough to hear the wind sighing in the trees.
I was
laughing as we walked back to the car. Suddenly, we heard a booming bark in the distance. A large, shaggy dog appeared at the crest of the hill. He stood still
for a moment and then charged down the street towards us with bared teeth. My mind registered his
matted coat and lack of collar then flashed back to a dog that had bitten
me on my way home from school as a child. Though my legs were not bare this
time, my pants would still be no match for this dog's teeth. I made like a tree and froze.
Jim, however, was already in motion.
His response
was automatic—a choreographed, wordless move. Jim stepped between the dog and
me, turning me neatly behind him in one fluid motion. Now there was just him
and this lunging mass of fur and teeth. Like the Horse Whisperer, Jim held out
his arms and spoke quietly but authoritatively to the dog. As it circled us,
Jim pivoted me out of harm’s way, repeating the same calming words again
and again.
Then,
inexplicably, the dog turned and ran back up the hill.
I looked at
Jim in astonishment as he watched the dog disappear. Though he usually carries an ASP on his daily walks at home, Jim was unarmed that morning. However, he did not hesitate to protect me with his body. His response was
instinctive, a reflexive action to shield me from harm.
There are
dozens of reasons I am blessed to be married to Jim Heinz. This is but one of them. Thank you, Dear.
