I'm going to tell you a little story involving my three biggest pet peeves: daylight saving, exercise and untethered canines with sharp teeth.

This weekend marked the return of the much-loathed concept of Daylight Saving Time – and for the record, I've never met a single person who is in favor of this ruthless scam against the concept of marked time.

We – and by we I mean most of the United States (Arizona, Hawaii and parts of Indiana wisely abstain) – have been enduring this farce on and off for most of our history and on a permanent basis since 1973.

Ostensibly, we suffer this travesty of common sense to save energy, though there's no credible evidence that such is the case. In fact, we've known for a long time that gasoline consumption actually goes up during DST, more than enough to overwhelm any possible gains from less electricity used during the extra evening daylight that isn't already offset by morning birds who have to keep the light on until later in the morning. Also, because Florida is so far south, we actually see much less difference in natural seasonal time change, making the negative effects of being on DST even more pronounced here in the Sunshine State.

What DST does do is screw up our internal rhythms, sap our productivity and foul all matters of daily routine. Classroom performance, office productivity and even sexual activity are negatively impacted by the practice. It's even been linked to increased health problems ranging from heart attacks to suicides, but we'll get back to DST in a minute.

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Now it's no secret that good old Ringo LOATHES regimented exercise of any sort. The occasional pub-crawl or keg run on the beach I can manage; maybe even a little bit of sand volleyball from time to time. But anything that requires ”athletic gear“ is pretty much persona non grata in my world.

However, it's also well known that I lead a less than, shall we say healthy lifestyle, so in order to keep obesity at bay in my mid-thirties, I've had to bite the bullet and engage in something a little brisker than a walk along the back nine.

Recently, my abdominal paunch was beginning to appear rather bulbous even in my baggiest Acapulco shirts, while I also had to let the little elastic/button straps on the inside of my cargo shorts out to the last slot. For similar reasons, my roommate Charlie B. had recently taken up jogging and invited me to come along.

”You don't jog!“ I argued.

”You're crazy, I jog every other morning,“ he protested.

”I've never seen you once!“ I screamed.

”That's because I do it before work, while your lazy ass is still in bed!“ he screamed back.

This was entirely possible, as I'm not what most people would call an early riser, though this is owed mostly to the late-night nature of my work.

”What time?“ I asked suspiciously.

”6:30 a.m.“

WHAT???

Knowing that I was highly unlikely to engage in any sort of solo routine, I signed up to join in on his little jaunts and last week we began doing a few miles by the early light of dawn – and by "a few" I mean not quite one and a half.

The first couple of days were admittedly rough. I learned that footwear is important (my three-year old Chuck Taylor All-Stars did not offer optimal support, plus my feet got so blistered it looked like a plague of boils had descended upon them). I also learned that without compression shorts, the Florida humidity could provoke the sort of biblical loin chafing that even Triple-medicated Gold Bond Powder can't cure.

There was also my horrendous physical condition to contend with. I'd been stagnant for months and began to cramp 20 steps into our first jog and tossed my cookies before we got halfway home. By the end of the week, however, I felt like at least the worst had passed.

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Then came that old nemesis: Daylight Saving Time. Charlie B. and I always try to start adjusting our schedule on Friday, turning all of the clocks in our house an hour ahead as soon as we get home from work.

This of course screws any and every sort of scheduled weekend interaction with the outside world, but a man must at least try to offset the evil when confronted by a force as strong as DST.

That being said, by the time our Monday morning alarm went off, we were both less than spry.

”God I'm foggy,“ said Charlie B., who despite his slavish devotion to the alarm clock, is in essence no more of a morning person than I am.

”Yeah, let's skip,“ I offered eagerly.

”No way,“ he said, ”with DST it's like ripping off a band-aid. Let's just get it over with.“

I silently agreed and we hit the street, only to find it pitch black. We could barely see our feet hit the ground (West Bradenton has some of the sorriest street lighting in the developed world) and it was all we could do to keep from tripping over the pitifully uneven sidewalks (on the few streets that even have them).

Since dawn hadn't broke by the time we hit the turnaround, we hung a right onto the busier confines of Manatee Ave. in order to head home with at least a slight sense of what was in front of us. We were within a couple of blocks, however, when a large and menacing (unattended) dog began running toward us. It had a collar and looked relatively well-taken care of, but it also looked scared or angry – maybe both.

It soon became clear that the dog wasn't looking for a pat on the head or a scratch on its belly. We both froze in place and looked at each other hoping the other would know what to do.

”Let's cross," I said, and we quickly ran from the street to the median of the 4-lane roadway, which was already growing thick with traffic.

As soon as we stopped on the raised concrete, Cujo headed toward us, seeming more than a little determined to sink his teeth into our less than taught flesh. Instinctively, we both crossed all the way to the far sidewalk, but without regarding the oncoming cars, the dog opened up his stride and hit the pavement a second behind us, just 10 feet further up the street.

Engaged in what might best be described as a high-stakes game of real-life Frogger, Charlie B. and I executed a couple more maneuvers, luring the ferocious beast into oncoming traffic until the driver of a large F-350 finally had to hit his brakes in order to avoid striking the beast.

The man piloting the giant rig jumped down from a side-step and looked back at us with venomous anger.

”What the #&@% are you trying to do????“ he screamed.

Charlie B. pointed at the dog, as if its aggressive stance and clear willingness to pounce would be self-explanatory. No such luck.

”You nearly made me run over this poor goddamned thing!" the man whaled. "What in the hell is WRONG with you?“

He turned back around and I instinctively looked toward the rear window to see if I could spy a shotgun rack, but couldn't see through the graphic-emblazoned tint, which seemed to be promoting his brand of pick-up truck over the competitor by way of a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon that I'll just say was not fit for family viewing.

”What's a matter buddy boy,“ he asked in what seemed an odd amalgamation of the angry voice he projected toward us and a cute and cuddly one usually reserved for newborns and small toddlers.

The dog was having none of it. The animal bore its teeth in a growl and quickly, leaned back on its hind legs and then lurched toward him, jumping in the air while barking in a way that seemed to suggest it was about to clamp onto the guy's tattooed forearm.

The man fell back on his heels and then quickly jumped in through the passenger seat of his truck, where he began beeping the horn and flashing the high beams. This finally seemed to sap the dog's will and it darted the long way across Manatee Ave, apparently forgetting about Charlie B. and I just long enough for us to duck down the alley and escape what had seemed like certain maiming.

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Now let me go on record and acknowledge that I am already certain that some animal rights lover is ready to tell us why the entire ordeal was our fault and advise all of the many ways we could have handled the situation in a way that would have been safer for the dog.

Let me also say that the only thing in West Bradenton that makes me feel as though I might want to get a concealed weapons permit and a .44 Magnum is the ridiculously-high volume of large dogs that often find themselves on solo missions, after the owner fails to keep them secured on the property.

If a pre-work jog is on the agenda, then about the only thing scarier than the loose dogs you often encounter are the high volume of dogs which are held at bay either by a short fence or a long-leash at the end of a very old and atrophied arm. Never mind the high likelihood of stepping in their fecal piles or the fact that even running before work in the first place, virtually guarantees that you will wake up just about anyone in the entire neighborhood lucky enough to still be asleep, as most dog owners have their pets out in their yard ready to bark at any sound louder than a pin dropping no later than 6 a.m. each morning.

Nevertheless, had we ended up running Cujo into an oncoming vehicle in our effort to flee the chase it had initiated (and believe me we were not unaware of the possibility), I'm sure there would have been thousands of Manatee County dog lovers demanding we be flogged, caned, or maybe even tarred and feathered?

I am aware that the lesson in this story is don't run, exercise can kill you faster than daylight saving, especially in West Bradenton. Believe me, I have taken it under advisement and were it not for the upcoming bender I am anticipating on St. Patrick's Day (my mother was 1/8 Irish on her stepfather's side), I would have swore off the sweaty stuff, cold turkey, right there on the spot.

In the meantime, perhaps we can give a little more thought as to whether DST is just one more antiquated relic best suited for the dust bin of history, and whether there might be a better way that non-dog owning humans and semi-feral canines can co-exist peacefully in the darkest hours before dawn.

previous column:

Letters From The Wasteland: Flu Like Symptoms

É or Fear and Loathing on Silk Road