Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf?

We walk.

My son has a firm grip on the “Thatcher’s” leash when a very large mastiff wanders down his own lawn towards the path. I would swear that they flinched at the same moment, my son and Thatcher. My older son cries “OH EM GEE” in a tone of doom, from a few paces behind, as his little brother yells “WHOA!” Thatcher arcs through the air like a quicksilver boomerang, sprung from the three foot lead, ricochets off a tree at seven foot to land on the ground, supine. My son launches himself on his body. They lie on the damp cold ground like spoons in a foetal position. The house owner ambles towards us with unnecessary apologies to coax his good natured, elderly hound away. As Thatcher’s whimpers subside I hear, “iz o.k.” from my son, who lies on top of the dog, arms encircling his neck. He leans up on one elbow to check that all is clear. His floppy fingers attempt tentative patting of Thatcher's rough hair. The boys’ eyes are out on stalks as they check in and compare notes. “OH EM GEE!” he repeats.
“OH EM GEE………….our dog……..he is not being a Labradoodle…..….he iz dah flyin dog!”

What can I say?

Thatcher is a wimp of the first order.