It happened again this morning.

There's this guy in the neighborhood, a sad, lonely old guy who's really a sweetheart and who loves animals. One of my friends said his wife died of a particularly grueling cancer. More recently, he told me she was dying. But given his state of mind, I tend to believe my friend's report...she does know everything that goes on around here.

At any rate, the old gentleman amuses himself by feeding the neighborhood cats and by waylaying people who are walking their dogs and handing out treats to their dogs. There's at least one house -- a place where two adult brothers live with and care for their very ancient mother -- that he visits every morning to fill up a bowl with cat kibble. These folks have two big, happy, plump cats that they allow to roam loose all the time. So you understand: the cat food becomes coyote food. And we have a fine population of coyotes in the 'hood.

Okay, this house is on Cassie & Ruby's beaten path, and the part of the 'hood where we like to walk is the part most haunted by our old guy.

We're out the door by about ten after five this morning, and sure enough, after we cross Feeder Street NW, there he is up ahead, schmoozing with Josie and her daughter and feeding their three dogs.

One of Josie's Chihuahuaoids is meaner than pussley, the nastiest little critter, so I swing out into the road to get around them all. It's a little early in the morning to be breaking up a dog fight, to my taste. The two women make their escape, dragging their wannabe pit bull with them.

Naturally, the old boy pursues us.

He asks if it's OK to give the dogs a treat. I say, again, "I wish you wouldn't."

Understand, this is a routine. I've told this guy three times, probably four, NOT to give Milkbones to my dogs. Every time he ignores me and hands the dogs treats, causing them to go bonkers with doggy joy (not to say doggy greed).

Why am I such a Scrooge that I don't want some random guy giving my dogs treats? Let us count the ways...

1. They are corgis. Looking at a Milkbone causes them to put on a pound. Possibly a pound per glance.
2. They have their own treats. Load them up with Milkbone calories, and when I reward them with their treats for this or that achievement they get too many extra calories.
3. Ruby is all over the guy, jumping up on him and totally out of control. I do not want to give her the idea that strangers will give her treats for jumping on them.
4. My dog is not your teddy bear.

Faster than you can holler "Quit That!" he grabs a Milkbone, snaps it in two -- one about a third of the thing and the other two-thirds of it -- and tosses them to the two dogs. And even faster than that, they're on their prey and gobbling it. Ruby grabs the largest piece.

Forthwith, Ruby starts to choke. Actually, she seems to be having a reverse-sneezing attack (not uncommon for her), but when it comes on her as she has this thing in her mouth, naturally the crud goes down the wrong way.

Now she's gasping and horking and choking and horking and horking and horking and horking and horking. I realize I'm going to have to get her to the emergency vet -- at five in the morning! -- but we're a half-mile from my house and that facility recently moved. I'll have go into the house and look it up to figure out where the place is. Meanwhile, my dog is choking to death.

It occurs to me to ask him to drive me home, but I'm so furious I can't bring myself to speak to him and besides, I'm not even sure he's competent to drive that far.

I tie Cassie's lead to a belt loop, pick up the horking Ruby, and start to carry her, as fast as I can go, toward the house. About the time we get to the point where I think I simply can NOT carry her any further, she finally stops heaving.

This has gone on for a good ten or fifteen minutes. But once the spasms stop, she recovers well enough to walk the rest of the way home.

You realize: not only have I told this guy repeatedly not to give my dogs Milkbones, but this is not the first time such an episode has happened! Is there a reason the guy can't remember that she had a spasmodic attack the last time he handed her a "treat" over my objections?

And what part of "NO" does the man not understand? What is the matter with people, anyway?

So I guess we'll have to take some other route for our morning walk. Waiting till the old boy has had his fun is not an option at this time of year: in 112-degree weather, if we're not out the door by 5 a.m., we're not goin' out the door.

The neighborhood has a nice park, which is quite lovely except for the chuckleheads who let their big dogs run loose in it. Some of these dogs are OK, but some have proved not to be so OK. Reference  the above, about untangling dogs at five in the morning.

Also very early in the morning when there's no one around, the park is probably not very safe. Women have been attacked there, and I've never been one to tempt fate. As a matter of fact this morning a very weird guy passed us. He looked like he was stoned out of his gourd, and as soon as he opened his mouth, he confirmed that suspicion. I did not have a weapon with me and I do not wish to carry one, forgodsake, to walk the dogs.

Besides which, the route we were taking goes through my very favorite part of the neighborhood. I fail to see why I should have to stay out of the nicest part of the 'hood, where a lot of my friends walk their dogs and their miniature fake pit bulls, because this guy can't take "no" for an answer.

And yeah. I do realize the dogs and the cats are therapeutic for the poor old fellow. Maybe I'm unreasonable. But honestly. I don't want harm to come to Ruby because this guy needs a therapy dog. He can pet her without feeding her, for hevvinsake.

The park. The weird guy. Those are the moments when I wish I had my German shepherd back.

Here's my Freudian problem: I'm a chip off my father's block. He grew up in Texas chasing cattle, fated to become a cowboy -- not the romantic type: the agricultural laborer type. To escape, he dropped out of high school, ran away, lied about his age, and enlisted in the Navy. In his mind, a dog was not your child and it was not your teddy bear: it was more on the order of a farm animal.

Prob'ly that's why I favor working breeds.

{grump!} The better I get to know people, the more I like my dogs.