Bundled in oversized sweats, I was being walked up the street by my daughter’s toy poodle, Bentley.

Bentley was the unofficial neighborhood ambassador and alarm clock. So, every few steps, he went, “Arf, arf, arf, arf.”

At the top of the street where we usually turned right, Bentley tugged me to the left

Suddenly, he stopped, hackles raised, and let out a volley, “arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!”

I squinted through the pre-dawn blur to see who or what Bentley was barking at.

Glowing orbs surrounded by brown fuzz. Big and round body like a Djembe drum laying on its side. What a big dog, I thought. Then the creature smiled flashing two long, thick canines, curved like Malian daggers.

It sprang off the ground, a streak of black discs on brown canvas like aso ebi for a post-coro party. It was a saber-tooth tiger!

I took off running. “Help!”

“Arf, arf, arf, arf.” Bentley tugged at his leash. Being short and complexed, he wanted to stay and fight. This was his neighborhood after all.

“You’d be morning meatpie,” I warned. “Help!”

Saber tooth was gaining on us. I slipped on a patch of ice. We were orisirisi for sure. Bacon, I mean, Bentley danced around, yapping.

As I scrambled back to my feet, Saber Tooth lunged. And skidded on the same patch of ice. “Crack!”

I tucked Bentley into my sweatshirt and clambered up a maple. But before I could haul ass, the saber tooth caught the seat of my pants. I held on. “Help!”

“Urf, urf, urf, urf.”

The tiger swung his head left and right. The tree shook. My hands slipped. It was over for sure.

Then, I heard the sweetest sound, “Bernice, come here, now!” A little old lady in a polka-dotted dressing gown, stood a few feet away.

Bernice shook its head, “clunk,” her teeth broke off, buried in my pants, and slunk off to its person.

“Arf, arf!” Bentley wriggled in my arms, trying to get down.

“She said Bernice not Bentley, you idiot.” The ungrateful dog nipped me. I will never again turn left.