The Running of the Pit Bulls

I went to Georgia to teach writing last weekend. I got caught up in the fun of old friends in new places, and hard work and easy laughter. So even though running was high priority, hedonism overrode my good judgment.

I was in Georgia, staying in a vintage farmhouse that rises from a field of cultured mist at the end of a long drive flanked by trees. I swear I can hear strains of “Theme from Gone with the Wind” as my car inches reverently up to the house. Gracious Plenty Farm is cast with the requisite cow, horse, and small herd of goats. My hostesses, Socha and Andi, note that the animals are not working farm animals. They are large pets masquerading as lawn ornaments.

But I digress.

Their farm is next door to a pit bull rescue center.

Let me repeat.

Pit. Bull. Rescue. Center.

Call me overly cautious, but I deemed it stooooopid to tie on running shoes and head out into the Georgia morning alone in an area where pit bulls might be migrating in search of new digs and a food supply they can outrun.

Even the cow looked nervous.

So I chose to play with Socha and Andi, commune with my fellow writers at the Generations Gallery in Indian Springs, teach, eat, and sleep. No running.

What an undisciplined wussie.

Had I been brave, I might have had my own Ernest Hemingway moment. Spitting in the eye of danger, Hemingway didn't hesitate to hurl himself into Pamplona Running of the Bulls. But I clutched when I had the opportunity to replicate his greatness. Somehow, Butts County Running of the Pit Bulls seemed less romantic and heroic.

In retrospect, I know I missed an opportunity that may never come my way again. I’ll be braver if there's a next time.

Run well, my darlings! Warm weather welcomes us!