Speed bump

Just one block down from my house resides an enclave of families who campaign vehemently against cars that speed down our street. Now. I agree with their concern. I, too, frown upon cars racing down our narrow urban street as though it were the interstate. However, I fail to share their view of every car, traveling at any speed, as a ruthless child killer - and anyone behind the wheel of such a monster as a wanna-be NASCAR driver.

Once the weather warms, these families place their little plastic "crossing guard" men with caution flags out on the curb. They plant their yard signs proclaiming things like "Slow down! We live here." These benign reminders, while slightly obnoxious in volume, don't bother me. What bothers me? The self-righteousness these knuckleheads have passed down to their offspring.

These little shits live to torment drivers. They stick their tongues out as cars inch slowly by. They throw snowballs. They dart out without looking both ways, then turn to see your reaction. (I give them my best catatonic stare.) The fact that my car, which I park on the street, can be seen from their homes, is the only thing holding me back from flipping the little bastards the bird every time I drive by. In the final feet of my commute, I look forward to seeing a) if the little terrorists are outside and b) what they - or their darling parents - might do that day.

For most of the winter, they've been dormant. But tonight's "event" refueled my annoyance. Spring has nearly sprung, so I suppose this was like our "season opener." Here's how it all went down.

It's about 4:55 pm, and I turn onto our street to find hipster dad and his 4- or 5-year-old son standing on the road next to their retro truck. Dad digs around behind the seat while son stands right in the path of traffic. Now, had I been the dad, I would have escorted my little one curbside while I finished unloading the car or looking for coins or whatever he was doing. But no. Dad sees me approaching and stares me down as he ever-so-slowly shuts the door - no smile or neighborly wave, only suspicion and loathing. (Next time I must remember to give him a wide, goofy grin and overly enthusiastic wave.)

At this point I'm traveling well under 10 MPH and slowing to stop because I think they may be ready to cross the street. Wrong again. It unfolds like a scene in a gunslinger movie - a horrifically anticlimactic one. Dad keeps staring and shooting imaginary death rays at my car as he and son inch to the curb like a pair of turtles. He cranks his neck as I pass, his watchful eyes following my car as though it were a tiger about to jump the curb and rip his precious child to shreds. I stare back to let him know that his passive-aggressive behavior isn't lost on me. I take deep cleansing breaths and resist the incredibly painful urge to hit the gas and go flying down the street. But alas. That wouldn't be neighborly now, would it?

When it comes to the end, let go.

Knowing when to quit may be life's greatest challenge. At least for me it is. We pour our hearts, time, energy, money and other resources into people, careers, goals and dreams without the promise of a return on our "investment." The more you commit, the harder it is to know when to walk away. Even when everyone else can see it is time ... even when you can see it is time.

We can easily fool ourselves into thinking that if only we loved someone more or changed some things about ourselves or the situation, then everything will turn out fine. But how long do you play the game? When are you better off with the inevitable heartache of walking away?

After nearly two months of dog ownership, Chris and I reached that point. We adopted a dog who had been abandoned. We didn't know his past, his age or his breeding. We house trained him and taught him basic commands, and we watched his nipping and jumping progress into snapping, growling, biting and lunging ... at us.

We tried what felt like a million things and considered putting possibly thousands of dollars more into fencing, one-on-one training, dog daycare, etc. Finally, we started to think maybe we were the problem. Maybe we weren't right for him. Then again, if we just kept trying ...

Things spiraled downward to the point he became aggressive with my 7-year-old cousin and continuously snapped at my face. We knew he had to find a new home where he would be happier. Never did I think HE had the problem. He seemed too sweet and adorable to be truly dangerous.

But the trainer at the rescue facility thought otherwise. She was amazed that we tried for so long.

Sadly, our little doggie was "unhinged" somehow. His aggressive behavior was far from normal. And we were told he needed to be put down before he seriously hurt someone. I can't remember the last time I bawled so hard. We seriously considered taking him home and continuing to try despite the risk. But in the end, we surrendered. It's one thing that he tries to eat our cat. It's another when he attacks us.

Perhaps it was the most humane thing to do, or perhaps it was completely wrong. Everyone will have an opinion. All I know is that I have to work through the conflicting sense of guilt and relief. We have know way of knowing what the first part of this dog's life was like. We tried to give him a good home. Now we have to find compassion for ourselves.

We have to let go, knowing that we tried our best and that some things are beyond our control.