wudjalike2no
New member
i was reading snacktracks thread and then i thought, had he possessed a ccw, and the dog bit him, could he shoot the dog? i do not have a ccp, but was just curious
dogs
- Thread starter wudjalike2no
- Start date
You would have to check your state law. According to a "lawyer's" site I found, in West Virginia you are permited to "defend yourself in any way" against a dog attack, which I am assuming would include shooting the dog. I looked to see if I could find the actual West Virginia Statute pertaining to this, but gave up after a few goggles. If I actually felt physically threatened by a dog, I would kill it, same as with a human attacker, regardless of what the law says.
Having said that, my husband and I are both "dog" people. We carry a box of biscuits in our vehicles and have befriended many a dog.
However, I have a relative who is scared to death of dogs. He interprets a mere bark as a sign of aggression. To him, any dog within ten feet would probably be viewed as a threat. So my concern would be...who gets to decide whether the dead dog was in the process of "attacking" the shooter? It is not reasonable to allow yourself to get bitten first, but at the same time, I would explode if someone shot my dog because it simply walked up to them and they interpreted that as a threat.
Having said that, my husband and I are both "dog" people. We carry a box of biscuits in our vehicles and have befriended many a dog.
However, I have a relative who is scared to death of dogs. He interprets a mere bark as a sign of aggression. To him, any dog within ten feet would probably be viewed as a threat. So my concern would be...who gets to decide whether the dead dog was in the process of "attacking" the shooter? It is not reasonable to allow yourself to get bitten first, but at the same time, I would explode if someone shot my dog because it simply walked up to them and they interpreted that as a threat.
Seconded. Anywhere.
The shooter. If I am the shooter, it is I who decide whether the dog was attacking me. This goes for any animal, domestic, feral or wild.
If a dog walks up to me that is not attached to a visible owner via a leash it is definately a threat to me. Even if it is attached to an owner, or the owner is visible nearby, it still is a threat to me until I have had some conversation about it's habits, likes and dislikes with the owner - and I am happy with my evaluation of the owner. If it displays the wrong doggy body language (or noises) it is an imminent threat and is going to get killed or seriously injured within a certain distance.
An just because a person is in the vicinity of a free roaming dog does not guarantee that they are in fact the owner or the dog is under their charge. I am reminded of a certain Pink Panther film years ago. "Does your dog bite"?
Moderators
About once a month we have a thread about dogs, dog "attacks" etc. I always reply with a lengthy disourse about what and what not to do when confronted by a dog, or dogs. (I have 12 years experience with training dogs for Schutzhund Sport, and have worked with trainers forn all over the country and around the world, including many police trainers/handlers). My question is:
If I wrote a "definitive" piece on the subject, could we make it a "sticky"???
Gonna cross post this on Tactics and Training as well (where I believe the sticky would belong.
About once a month we have a thread about dogs, dog "attacks" etc. I always reply with a lengthy disourse about what and what not to do when confronted by a dog, or dogs. (I have 12 years experience with training dogs for Schutzhund Sport, and have worked with trainers forn all over the country and around the world, including many police trainers/handlers). My question is:
If I wrote a "definitive" piece on the subject, could we make it a "sticky"???
Gonna cross post this on Tactics and Training as well (where I believe the sticky would belong.
"If a dog walks up to me that is not attached to a visible owner via a leash it is definately a threat to me."
Wow. We live out in the country. Little one lane road, but a lot of houses up through the hills. We keep our dogs contained but most around here do not. Lot of pet dogs, and during the season, a lot of hunting dogs get lost and show up. I've even seen muts come strolling through the local Walmart. If I felt threatened every time a dog came around, I'd be a basket case.
"If it displays the wrong doggy body language (or noises) it is an imminent threat and is going to get killed or seriously injured within a certain distance."
I agree. I have been around dogs who exhibit threatening behavior (I have been bitten before, as a child). Though I have never had to kill a dog, my husband had to once a long time ago, and I would, if necessary.
I think we are on the same page, more or less. I guess I just give the knuckleheads a bit more leadway than I do humans. To me, they are easier to read. I've never known one to come up from behind and force you into your own pick up truck. (I would like to set the dogs loose on that one!)
Wow. We live out in the country. Little one lane road, but a lot of houses up through the hills. We keep our dogs contained but most around here do not. Lot of pet dogs, and during the season, a lot of hunting dogs get lost and show up. I've even seen muts come strolling through the local Walmart. If I felt threatened every time a dog came around, I'd be a basket case.
"If it displays the wrong doggy body language (or noises) it is an imminent threat and is going to get killed or seriously injured within a certain distance."
I agree. I have been around dogs who exhibit threatening behavior (I have been bitten before, as a child). Though I have never had to kill a dog, my husband had to once a long time ago, and I would, if necessary.
I think we are on the same page, more or less. I guess I just give the knuckleheads a bit more leadway than I do humans. To me, they are easier to read. I've never known one to come up from behind and force you into your own pick up truck. (I would like to set the dogs loose on that one!)
Seems to me that it should be treated as any other situtation. Just because a dog growls at you, doesn;t mean it will attack, just the same as just because a person stares at you, doesn't mean they are a threat. But then again, I wouldn't want to wait unitl it is making my leg a chew toy.
snacktrack
New member
Hey thanks for making this a new thread, I was asking the same questions and didnt get any answers from anyone. I would like to read a definitive piece on the subject, dfaugh.
I am a huge animal lover Charley as well. And I would think much harder before hitting or shooting an animal before I would a human. The owner should be in control of his animal at all times. I walk up to many dogs while walking my dog and pet them, big dogs, Bull Mastiffs, great danes, rottweilers, you name it. I take my dog to our local "bark park", which is a fenced in open area with water fountains for dogs on the ground, and a separate area for small dogs and big dogs. It was errected by the state last year and is a big hit with dog owners. I have never seen any dogs bite each other there. Thats because everyone who brings their dog there is a repsonsible dog owner. The dogs there play with my dog, and the funny thing is the bigger dogs tend to be scared of little runts like my dog.
But the thing is, animals are abused and trained to fight people in the city, the way the boxer bolted at my dog, I was scared to death that me and my dog were going to be horribly biten. I was very lucky.
Has anyone out there had to defend themselves against a dog? This is the only time in my 29years I have feared bodily injury.
I am a huge animal lover Charley as well. And I would think much harder before hitting or shooting an animal before I would a human. The owner should be in control of his animal at all times. I walk up to many dogs while walking my dog and pet them, big dogs, Bull Mastiffs, great danes, rottweilers, you name it. I take my dog to our local "bark park", which is a fenced in open area with water fountains for dogs on the ground, and a separate area for small dogs and big dogs. It was errected by the state last year and is a big hit with dog owners. I have never seen any dogs bite each other there. Thats because everyone who brings their dog there is a repsonsible dog owner. The dogs there play with my dog, and the funny thing is the bigger dogs tend to be scared of little runts like my dog.
But the thing is, animals are abused and trained to fight people in the city, the way the boxer bolted at my dog, I was scared to death that me and my dog were going to be horribly biten. I was very lucky.
Has anyone out there had to defend themselves against a dog? This is the only time in my 29years I have feared bodily injury.
snacktrack
New member
hey mvpel, how did you insert that image? do you have to link it to an already posted web image? when i click the insert image button it asks for the text, not the file of the picture i want to upload. can you help me out?
Charley
When I say threat, I perhaps should have said potential threat. The trouble with dogs is that sometimes they can go from stationary and just eyeballing you to flatout run in a split second, and can be on you very quickly - far quicker than a human covering the same distance. And if they are simply eyeballing you while stationary with their tail and ears up, they do not wear clothing or display any of the other subtle signs of behavior and changes in eye contact as humans, whereby one can make some preliminary if limited judgement.
If you are suddenly rushed by such an animal and take even a nip on the leg etc that breaks the skin of course it usually means a trip to the hospital and a rabies shot. Not going to happen if I can help it.
A walking staff is perhaps a very handy item in these circumstances since any contact with an unknown dog can be allowed to proceed to close quarters where the various signs of aggression might show. Should an attack suddenly ensue a big stick can either be used to fend it off, or as a distaction long enough to employ something else.
More of a problem in many places these days, and potentially far more dangerous than a single mut, are feral dogs running in packs.
When I say threat, I perhaps should have said potential threat. The trouble with dogs is that sometimes they can go from stationary and just eyeballing you to flatout run in a split second, and can be on you very quickly - far quicker than a human covering the same distance. And if they are simply eyeballing you while stationary with their tail and ears up, they do not wear clothing or display any of the other subtle signs of behavior and changes in eye contact as humans, whereby one can make some preliminary if limited judgement.
If you are suddenly rushed by such an animal and take even a nip on the leg etc that breaks the skin of course it usually means a trip to the hospital and a rabies shot. Not going to happen if I can help it.
A walking staff is perhaps a very handy item in these circumstances since any contact with an unknown dog can be allowed to proceed to close quarters where the various signs of aggression might show. Should an attack suddenly ensue a big stick can either be used to fend it off, or as a distaction long enough to employ something else.
More of a problem in many places these days, and potentially far more dangerous than a single mut, are feral dogs running in packs.
situations dictates.......
Sorry, I know I am nothing more than a broken record saying this over and over...... but lets break it down to size....
Distance - how far is pup from me?
Ability - is he got the drop on me?
Character - is he hungry or happy?
Size - is he big enough to knock me down?
Cover - can I get to some or put something between his teeth and my butt?
Voice - can I talk with authority and change his mind?
If above have raced through your mind and your still in trouble and in fear of great injury...... I will be carefully and quickly letting air out of said animal with 115g JHP. Everyone has to do some quick thinking on their own feet. If I should get hauled into court I had better explain that all other ways to stop attack were exhausted......sounds like a perp too? yea....not much different in my plan book.... just don't forget each round sent better hit the mark. I don't like to hear about empty the magazine.......if so your shooting ability sucks and your going to put one some place it doesn't belong....
just my silly 3 cents worth........... good luck
Sorry, I know I am nothing more than a broken record saying this over and over...... but lets break it down to size....
Distance - how far is pup from me?
Ability - is he got the drop on me?
Character - is he hungry or happy?
Size - is he big enough to knock me down?
Cover - can I get to some or put something between his teeth and my butt?
Voice - can I talk with authority and change his mind?
If above have raced through your mind and your still in trouble and in fear of great injury...... I will be carefully and quickly letting air out of said animal with 115g JHP. Everyone has to do some quick thinking on their own feet. If I should get hauled into court I had better explain that all other ways to stop attack were exhausted......sounds like a perp too? yea....not much different in my plan book.... just don't forget each round sent better hit the mark. I don't like to hear about empty the magazine.......if so your shooting ability sucks and your going to put one some place it doesn't belong....
just my silly 3 cents worth........... good luck
Perhaps this will help
"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?" Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back.
At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind but the months wore on and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believe a Supreme Being had created the universe. I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human being on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs - all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons—too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down.
It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement "He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly. As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog." I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers." " I've often thanked God for sending that angel." he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article,
Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter, his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father, and the proximity of their deaths.
And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.....with The Dog.
"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?" Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back.
At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind but the months wore on and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believe a Supreme Being had created the universe. I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human being on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs - all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons—too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down.
It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement "He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly. As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog." I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers." " I've often thanked God for sending that angel." he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article,
Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter, his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father, and the proximity of their deaths.
And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.....with The Dog.
