Yesterday as we were leaving El Mercado, Mo caught a man beating his dog. Rocky and I were a few yards behind, so all we saw was Mo, pounding toward somebody behind a van on the other side of the street, screaming bloody murder at him: “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! DON’T YOU HIT THAT DOG!”
Past the van top, I could see the man’s head. I thought, if he’s beating up his dog, he’s on adrenaline. He’s going to kick the crap out of my wife. She was yelling, livid. I had Rocky in the stroller – what could I do? I cautiously came around the bend of the van, into view of Mo, all five feet zero inches of her, on fire with rage. Then I saw the man. He was just standing there, a big tall guy, hands at his sides, shoulders caved in, looking at her askance. He was terrified.
My wife is a hurricane. Her power comes up from the molten core of the Earth, up through her solid grounding-force legs, through her passionate heart, and explodes outward, hitting the cold outside, spiraling around her, encasing everyone near in an electric, roaring, 150-knot circular gale.
The guy mumbled some excuses (the dog apparently pooped in his car, which is obviously a perfectly good reason to get on top of the dog and start punching her with your fist), but he was outmatched. Mo the hurricane informed the man that animal abuse is illegal, that she had his plate number, and that she would call the cops. He got out of there fast.
She didn’t really get his plates, and the police were not called. We had neither pen nor cell phone.
Later, on the phone with her mom, she said, “Mom, how could I not step in?”
“Honey,” said Betty, “what if he’d had a gun?”
“Well Mom,” she said, “that would have sucked.”