I moved from County Fair Mobile Estates in late summer 2005. I was ready to go in July but, unbeknownst to me, the managers chose to go on a two week vacation just at that moment—I missed completing my business with them by a single day. Of course they left no one in charge who could discharge such managerial duties responsibly. I would just have to wait two more weeks to complete final paper work.
It was frustrating but I had learned how to be patient in situations where there was no other remedy. Although eager to start my new life in a much nicer mobile-home park, I resigned myself to ticking off the days. It seemed like forever!
I kept up with my usual routines the best I could, which included going for occasional long walks in the neighborhood. Walking was beginning to replace running as old track injuries resurfaced. Wearing tennis shoes and pounding the pavement was not as easy or as much fun as it used to be, especially for my knees.
The old mobile-home park from which I was eager to escape fronted on Umbarger Road just south of the Santa Clara Fairgrounds. Finally, the two week wait was almost over. One Sunday morning I decided to go for a walk, the last day and night before I would move away forever on Monday.
I remember hoping nothing bad would happen but a sneaky shadow of an unwanted premonition trailed behind me that day. Something in the air did not feel right. It brought back to mind a word from Berkeley college days: “vibes”. The word never attained great meaning for the world outside the college campus (except from context and inflection) but for the hippies it carried plenty of wallop.
Simply put, you could get “good vibes” or “bad vibes”. The word itself, shortened from “vibrations”, was meant to suggest palpable emanations perceived on a psychic wave length. For those stoned enough, “vibes” reached a level of reality that deserved space in a Physics textbook as an actual phenomenon.
For the rest of us, it just meant a general feeling of impending “good” or “bad”. Of course, some people only claim they had a premonition after a particular kind of episode or event has taken place. It’s nearly impossible to discern an actual premonition from this kind of after-the-fact claim.
Still, lest one think the perception of “vibes” was solely imaginary, a useless superstitious incantation, it should be pointed out plenty of people felt and acted on vibes.
An entire lifestyle could be adjusted to precautionary actions for “bad vibes” or a willingness to join in the fun and celebrate “good vibes”.
In short, the term could be used as a warning for danger. If you were dancing at a party, say, and some bad apples showed up looking for trouble, you might say “I don’t dig the vibes here, let’s leave” which meant to get the hell away before trouble broke out.
“Good vibes” was just the opposite: you could be in a new place and unsure of whether you wanted to stay. Then you discover the music is good, people are friendly, there’s food and drinks, and you are made to feel welcomed.
You are invited to join in the “fun and festivities” so there is no reason not to stay and enjoy the “good vibes”. Nobody worries particularly when the vibes are bright and happy—life is good as it should be. It’s only when the vibes are dark and menacing that the term takes on a much more sinister connotation. That’s when a premonition of bad things about to happen enters the landscape, to be ignored at one’s peril.
Though I do not consider myself superstitious in the slightest, that Sunday as I went for my morning walk I was being dogged by a premonition of bad luck. It was as real as if a large dark shadow was following me. I was just one day short of my move which I was looking forward to greatly; indeed, nearly all the moving of furniture and personal possessions had already occurred. I only needed Monday as a business day to finish up with the managers.
The thought “what if” something bad happened on my last day broke through the surface of my subconscious mind from time to time but I did my best to set it aside. Nonetheless, I was more nervous and jittery than usual, though neither quality was a part of my normal character. Something was “in the air”—something was amiss but I knew not what. I hoped it was “nothing” (a wandering premonition that did not even belong to me) but at the same time the feeling grew that something bad was about to happen.
The walk itself went well enough until I started back home, traveling west on Umbarger from Senter Road. Now mind you, I only had about a quarter of a mile to go to return to my house when I first noticed a large black dog running free on the other side of the street.
If you were to draw a picture of the one kind of dog you would least like to meet, this brute filled the bill nicely. It looked to me to be largely pit bull but with a hybrid cross of uncertain parentage. Its body language expressed that intense anger and hostility for which the worse of the breed is noted; at a great distance I could sense its inclination to attack, even before it finally noticed me.
This was not going to be pretty! I felt like a ghostlike figure walking into certain doom, each step playing out with the utmost inevitability of a sure and gruesome fate.
I was on the left (or south) side of the street headed west, as there was no sidewalk on the other side of the street; just some hard-packed dirt where cars parked occasionally alongside a cyclone fence marking the boundary of the fairgrounds. This frightening dog was sniffing around at the base of that fence, overgrown with weeds and sometimes paper bags with discarded food remnants.
It was headed in the opposite direction, east toward Senter Road, and was perhaps 50 yards away when I first got a good look at it. A shudder of fear went through me immediately. I entertained a brief (but foolish) hope we could pass each other without incident. The dog was jet black with a large head and heavy jowls, although it did not show any signs of distemper or rage–at least not yet.
I remember desperately looking around for its owner, hoping somewhere somehow a person was actually walking this beast off leash. At any second this owner might show up to whistle the dog back and regain control of it: no such luck!
The dog had no collar and no dog owner was anywhere in sight, if indeed it even had one. It may have been feral and on its own; it was impossible to say. I could not believe, if it did have an owner, that anyone would let such an aggressive dog–notorious for its temper and unpredictable outbursts–run free on its own but I had not much time left to ponder the matter further.
I’m no expert on pit bulls but this dog had the shape and aggressive tendency of one, although much larger and longer-legged than normal. Its mouth was full of sharp gleaming white teeth; it was in the full vigor of its prime. I was not sure if a single human being could defeat such an animal if it began snarling, slashing, and biting!
I rather doubted it but I had to consider, foolishly or no, what I would do once the attack began. Of that I was already fairly certain—fate brought the two of us together that Sunday morning for a showdown and I knew the coming clash was unavoidable.
As there was no other way for me to get home save by my present route, I decided to keep going: I feared turning my back and running would arouse its predatory instinct and initiate the attack.
By now my premonition was running amuck and reinforced by a wild escalating fear that made my heart thump with powerful beats.
I kept hoping this “killer dog” would not notice me but the thought was barely formed before the vicious brute raised its head and looked straight at me. It did so with a flashing angry stare that far exceeded a normal dog’s regular curiosity; in truth, it fixated on me from that moment onward with a killer’s instinct.
I kept wishing for the drama to defuse itself but instead every second brought real danger closer and closer. I thought of “The Hounds of the Baskervilles” and wondered if this is what it was like to be stalked by a vicious animal bent on attacking and killing?
Finally, this powerful canine assassin made a beeline for me, crossing the street at a sharp angle that led only to me and no other target. As there were no other walkers around and hardly any traffic, it was clear that the dog’s temper was somehow sharply aroused by my presence and that it was coming straight for me and me alone.
Then, suddenly, from the direction of Monterey Highway and heading east on Umbarger, I caught out of the corner of my eye an old, beat-up, blue pick-up truck laboriously making its way up the street. The pit bull monster dog was to the left side of the driver of the pick-up truck, both headed in the same direction. The driver appeared to be going quite slowly, doing maybe 20 miles per hour.
The climax of the crisis arrived suddenly, just seconds ahead of the impending attack. I experienced this one dreadfully frightening moment when I had to make a split second decision, knowing I would only have one chance to escape unscathed. Then came something more powerful than premonition: a moment of great clarity.
Under normal circumstances, people should follow this advice: to break off eye contact with a dangerous animal. Stop staring back at a breed with a reputation for vicious attacks. I knew enough not to stare back, not to arouse a predatory instinct—staring would be perceived by this dog as a challenge and surely make matters worse.
Yet “normal” was already gone so such advice meant little. The dog moved with an unnerving cockiness as though it knew before the attack how it could inflict maximum damage and emerge victorious. As the dog with the killer instinct reached the edge of the pavement and started across the street headed straight for me, I decided to roll the dice. It was a long shot but I could think of nothing else to do.
I stared back into its angry blazing eyes as hard as I could. I sent back an equally strong animal response as though accepting and relishing the challenge to a physical confrontation–even though by now I could plainly see the dog’s teeth and how its open hostility was about to lead to an attack. The dog fixed its own gaze on me just as intently, as I hoped it would, oblivious to anything but me as its prey.
Generations of instinct bred into it could lead this pit bull to act in no other way. So intense became its preoccupation with me that it failed to track the blue pickup truck that was moving slowly up the road; the staring contest between us ignited a furious intensity in this wild animal. It was halfway across the street, not more than 20 feet from me, when the truck struck it a fairly good blow.
I could see the driver but poorly through his dirty windshield; he appeared to be of Asian background, perhaps Filipino, with a bit of a smile on his lips on a face that was otherwise drawn taut and showing strain. He had braked and slowed down right before his collision with the dog, perhaps to avoid killing it outright, and yet he had not slammed on his brakes, either.
It seemed to me he wasn’t trying to avoid hitting the black brute but only lessen the intensity of the impact. He was guessing at the right amount of force. He let the truck roll forward slowly as the dog tried to stay ahead of the fender and escape but the truck finally knocked the brute off its feet.
I still have the image frozen in my mind watching its front legs frantically whirling like an egg beater to regain its footing even as it was being pushed forward by the truck. The legs were moving so fast they all became a blur. I experienced an inward shudder at recognizing the strength and agility of this dog and what might have happened had it actually attacked me!
The driver kept letting the truck roll forward which kept the dog off its feet without rolling over it. After much effort, the now half-crazed dog suddenly regained its feet and scampered off, running for its life and farther and farther away from where I stood, transfixed, watching this whole scene play out in slow motion.
The man in the truck never stopped. We never exchanged so much as a single word but I am convinced we both saw and understood the episode the same way. A brief look between us said more than words ever could. It would have been nice to have had a chance to thank him but I’m sure he knows how thankful I am for him in my heart. I do not know who he was or where he came from but he certainly showed up at the most opportune time imaginable!
What is the moral of this story? I now know that “good vibes” and “bad vibes” do exist. A premonition can still have meaning and should not be ignored! I also know that there are good human beings everywhere who sometimes show up out of nowhere just in the nick of time to help us when we most need it.
Was that a miracle, an intervention from on high, or just an incredibly fortunate piece of luck? I don’t know and suppose I never will. What’s important was that my faith in people was strengthened immeasurably and has never been shaken since.
The dark shadow of the premonition that had been following me around that morning burst and evaporated in a shower of a million pieces and suddenly I was aware of the day being filled with radiant sunshine. I knew then I would make it through my last day in fine shape.
The next morning I saw the managers and finished up my last bit of business with them, arranging for a refund to be mailed to my new address. I jumped in my car and headed for my new place and my new life. I came out of the mobile-home park’s driveway near the exact spot where this incident occurred.
I put on my blinker, turned right, and drove away.
I never looked back.
