A rather odd fear

Another stamp of approval from university publication

Fear. 

It’s such a small word, but it holds you in a vice-like grip at any point, at any experience, at any moment. 

Some might have a fear of heights, if said in a single word: acrophobia. Some may have a fear of sharp objects, called aichmophobia. Some may be afraid of the idea of marriage and love at the same time. These two are called gamophobia and philophobia. Although the latter two don’t, to some degree, need experience, at least that’s what I think. You see the tangible effects and the desire to avoid intangible sentiments among the people who saw the end of love burned brighter than ember and marriage, which itself is a promise of harmony and goodwill among the pair tied, as if a red ribbon has solidified so. 

If I were to speak about the number of fears in the world, it might not end. But this writing has to end at some point, and this is the beginning of my end to this piece.

My fear is really bizarre, as the person who might be reading this may think, because I’m sure nobody would think an animal that is docile and cheerful yet stern at proper moments would be a source of fear. This is why the document is named a rather odd fear. 

I have a fear of dogs. 

The four-legged animal can’t stop people from ruffling their fur, feeding a few handfuls of food, and coddling them to their heart’s content. Be it one on a large or any road, or be it in someone else’s disposition. 

I have had this fear since I was thirteen. A raw age, where children don’t comprehend the larger fears, or fear a lot of things quite easily. I, of course, fall into the latter category. 

I have always been a child whose feathers are easily ruffled. And one winter evening, a dog decided to do it, when you think only humans, insects, or other random things scare someone enough. 

I was in my own world with a badminton bat in hand (yes, I loved badminton and still enjoy watching the game) and a guard dog to watch over the place where I lived. It was moving in my hand as I walked towards the badminton court on my merry feet, not fearful of the animal. 

When I got a bit further, the dog barked. I stopped in my tracks and saw it with fearful eyes because the danger was eyeing me back. It started running, so I ran briskly, forgetting I had the evening to spend by playing. While I was almost at the edge of that path, the dog stopped by itself, and the bat slipped from my hand to the ground, my lungs pulling the chilly air in as two women saw me and my encounter with it. 

They asked if I was alright, and I assured them I was left unscathed. I gazed back and saw the dog almost viewing me back with a blind rage. I found myself leaving the spot as fast as possible.

I took the longer path to the court, and I couldn’t bring myself to play that evening. 

Ever since, even the sight, smell, barking, or anything else that indicates the breed causes my mind to alarm itself, as if the crimson and azure siren is dissonant in my ears, and I find myself turning around and avoiding them like a plague. 

I get ridiculed a lot. By a lot, I mean it. Being scared of an animal, which means no harm. I wonder if they decided to overlook the fact that they are capable of doing so. I don’t understand their understanding or their reasoning for loving dogs. I don’t think I ever will. 

I’ve been told to never be fearful of them, to not get as rigid as a stone in their presence lurking nearby. To not let them understand I am intimidated by an animal two sizes smaller than I am, or even one if the breed is taller. My only takeaway from their talk is that they were never in the face of danger for once in their lives. They walk past it like it isn’t there. But what they don’t understand is that I am incapable of doing so. Dogs scare me to no end, a pet or a stray. 

Regardless of anything, I don’t think I see myself being in peaceful coexistence with the four-legged animal anytime soon.