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The sandy streets of Ocean Beach were not designed for dog walking—in fact, the signage strictly forbids it. So yesterday morning, Bailey and I drove a mile north to see about draining her fully charged battery.

She was super excited by all the new scenery and scents. Wherever we turned, a chorus of barking dogs welcomed our arrival. (She’s huge in the dog community, which goes to both our heads.) But all of a sudden, the puppy-razi came a little too close for comfort.

To our right approached a car that chauffeured a yapping dog not happy to see us. “Get the f**k out of my neighborhood,” I think he was saying, but we paid him no mind. This further enraged him. And as the vehicle passed us, to everyone’s surprise, the dog jumped out the back window, landing on his head.

Like a knocked-down boxer struggling to his feet, the dog regained his balance, his bearings, his composure, and his rage. “He doesn’t bite!” yelled his driver, which the dog treated as an attack command, showing his teeth and coming right at us.

After a few rotations around me, I picked up Bailey, and the other dog was restrained. They must have lived nearby, because the man left his car running and walked in the opposite direction, no longer confident in his car’s ability to contain the pooch.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said.

Too winded to be angry, I put Bailey down and prepared to resume our journey. “Hey,” I responded, “it’s a story to tell.”

And then both our batteries were drained.