I was walking my dog down the street, when she stopped and started barking at a bush, in that nonsensical way that dogs do.

Then he appeared from around the corner.

He was a middle-aged man in a black polo shirt and brown khaki pants. He smelled of cologne and cigar smoke. He was slightly balding. His arms were tanned, and veiny below the elbows, an expensive-looking silver watch over the left wrist. He looked like a retired athlete: muscular torso, slightly, yet tastefully overweight.

A real man of action.

He spotted my dog, pulled a Glock G19 pistol from his pants, and shot her.

She fell to the ground, screaming, yelping in pain. I knelt beside her and applied pressure to the wound. The man walked over and looked down at us, a blank, stoic expression on his face.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked him.

“I heard barking,” he said. “I thought your dog was attacking someone. I had to act.”

I explained that she was just barking at a bush.

“Why would a dog do something like that?” he asked.

“Because she’s a dog,” I explained.

“Well, maybe you should train her to be more calm and civil, instead of wildly barking at things.”

“You fucking shot my dog.”

“There is no reason to be vulgar. If all you’re going to do is be nasty and uncivil, then I don’t think there’s much more we can say. Good day.”

The man left. I called an emergency vet. My dog will be fine. And unfortunately, so will the man of action.