I always feel sad when I see some poor dumb animal, or bird, lying in the road after being hit by a car or a lorry.

I am, sad to say, frequently harassed by the countless birds that sometimes seem intent on committing suicide as they glide across my path. In my case, I have room to maneuver as I don’t drive a car. I spend most of my traveling time on a bicycle, either shopping, riding over rough terrain or just plain racing along the county roads, chasing tractors and electric cars.

So being an animal lover and a careful cyclist, you can imagine how I felt as I came to the end of a road – designated for farm vehicles only – and entered a tiny village. I saw in the distance, lying in the middle of the narrow roadway, a bundle, which I took at first to be a cat. I thought some careless or vindictive driver had ran it down. As I came closer I could make out the shape of a small dog lying on its side. I pulled up alongside the supine creature wondering what to do – should I call the police or go knocking on doors?

It was midday and the sun was shining, the whole street was deserted. With tears trickling down my cheeks I looked at the poor animal to see if I could detect any sign of life, and yes, I saw a movement, it was still breathing. Then, the poor thing opened one eye and I said to myself, “Thank God, it’s still alive.” I went through my mind thinking what one does with an injured animal lying in the middle of a street, any moment a blooming great tractor could come along and squash it flat. So I dismounted from my rough-terrain bike and stooped over the prostrate animal, and to my surprise, it lifted its tiny head. Then its eyes opened and it looked up at me, pleading for help.

I was still wondering what to do when it raised its little head more and came to a lying position. I thought with relief, “It must have been only stunned.” I reached out to it and suddenly it jumped to its feet growling at me. I backed away knowing injured animals aren’t always aware that humans want to help them. Then the little thing went for me, snarling ferociously, probably bent on revenge for some past incident with a cyclist. I dodged to one side and picked up my bike and it trotted after me, fangs glistening, as I backed farther away, saying, “Nice doggy go away nice doggy.” (Not my actual words) I was lucky enough to be able to run off and mount my bike before the little “§$%&=? took a piece out of my leg.

It chased after me, yapping like crazy, but it gave up eventually as we came to the end of the road, and he turned and trotted away.

I stopped, puzzled, and watched to see what he would do next. The penny dropped as he reached the exact spot where he had been lying and lay down once more in the same supine position to await his next victim.

William-Stephen Taylor : I’m 66 years old, and as they say, I’m in the prime of life.
I’m an ex-military/photographer/ karate instructor/baseball coach living in Germany.
The story I am sending you is a true account of what happened one Sunday morning as I completed a fifty kilometer bicycle tour.

I lied about the tears.

Click here to read The gift of one’s self a contest story.