When I was a kid, I had a brilliant idea. My parents, who had continually denied my numerous requests for a pet -- any pet -- had just said no to the Desperation pet. The Last Resort pet. The I'm-Allergic-To-Anything-With-Fur pet.

It's not like I wanted a bird so badly, either, but my last goldfish left me heartbroken when I found it belly up in its murky bowl. And the parents were adamant about not getting any animal whose poop they'd have to scoop.

So it came to this. And if they weren't going to get one for me, I'd go out and get it myself. There were plenty of birds flying around out there, I'd just grab one.

Now, please save all the metaphors, the poetry, the cliches about capturing a wild bird, blah, blah, blah, for someone else. I was, like, six or seven or something. I just wanted a pet. Period.

And because I was so smart, I figured the best way to catch a bird would be to do it the way they did it on TV -- with a lasso. So I fashioned one from some dirty old twine I found on the floor in the garage and set out to the empty field at the end of our street, the one where we played all the time, the one with all the good stuff -- sharp wires, broken beer bottles, plants with prickly burs, rats, snakes.

I think there may have been a playground a couple of blocks down, but this place was way more interesting.

Plus, it was the Olden Days, when seven-year-olds were left to their own devices in open fields, walked to school unescorted and laughed at the neighbourhood pervert who sat in his car naked from the waist down. And who for some reason it took an eternity to arrest.

So I stood there in the field. For a long time. Every now and then, a bird would land on the concrete boulder nearby and I'd toss my little lasso. But I learned quickly that real life is seldom the way it is on Bugs Bunny and I was starting to wonder why.

At some point, someone came looking for me, asked what I was doing, bade me good luck and promptly returned to the house where I imagine they busied themselves in discussions about special schools and the like.

It was also around that time that I befriended (and named) a green thumb tack, so I guess they had their hands full.

Anyway, I probably don't have to tell you that my brilliant plan didn't work out the way I'd liked. But nothing ventured nothing gained, right?

Luckily for me, about a year later, my dad had a disc slip in his back and pinched a nerve. He was in terrible pain and was hopped up on all kinds of meds that left him in a somewhat altered state. That's when I asked for a puppy. And that's when he agreed. And my mother had to comply because he promised.

Shauna, the beagle, was with us for 11 months. She then made the unfortunate mistake of tearing open my mother's new living room chairs, strewing stuffing all over the house. After that, Shauna went to live with a nice family in the country somewhere.

All this to say, I like animals. I like them a lot.

What I often don't like is the people who keep them.

So the other day I'm jogging at the end of what turned out to be a much longer run than I'd anticipated. And all I was thinking was: Water. Home. Fast. Now.

Not gonna happen, though. Not yet. Because some woman had to take her two dogs off-leash while strolling this trail, which was busy with cyclists, joggers and kids.

So I stopped running. 'Cause it's never a good idea to run past a growling dog, especially one that's left to wander freely. And the huge, lumbering German shepherd with its ears flat back was doing just that.

"You're not afraid of dogs are you?" she asked condescendingly. "He's so old ..."

She hadn't even finished her sentence when Dog came charging at me, growling, barking. And she stood there, watching.

This happens all the freaking time. The Waterfront Trail is the worst. Even the youngest, healthiest dogs get freaked out by people whizzing past them on in-line skates. And they lunge. And they snap. And they bite.

I rant about this all the time, but I'm saying it again. I'm not afraid of dogs. I am afraid of people who forget their dogs are not human and are incapable of rational thought.

Or of freaks who put their dog's imagined enjoyment of the trail above humans'.

So when you're on a busy trail, Keep. Your. Dog. On. A. Leash.

Thas'all.

snadler@thespec.com