SEP 8, 2009 – 12:00AM

First of all, let me start by saying, honest to blog, I’m a dog person.

I grew up with dogs and have been accused of lying down with a few.

I prefer Snoopy to Garfield, “Call of the Wild” to … well, I can’t think of any decent cats in literature, so maybe that says something right there.

All through college I wanted a dog of my own, but fate intervened when I met the love of my life, and she was a cat person.

Before long, she dumped my sorry dog-loving behind, but then I rebounded to find my wife, who also preferred felines.

So while I’ve lived the past 16-plus years with tabbies instead of pooches, I still prefer Fido to Kitty.

That said, I’ve had a couple of odd two-wheeled encounters with dogs that have given me pause. Or paws.

The first happened last week, when I was riding home from work.

Spinning along, I passed a pickup with a pooch in the bed, then rolled to a stop at a light. Traffic to my right was turning right on red, and as I sat waiting for the light to change, I heard a snapping just inches from my right ear and smelled Kibbles. The hellhound had lunged at me as he passed, close enough I could smell his stinky dog-breath.

Then, just two days later, I was riding home from racquetball and was passed by another pickup with three dogs in the back: real dog’s dogs, too — big, friendly, slobbery, I’d-go-to-the-ends-of-the-Earth-to-fetch-a-tossed-tennis-ball pooches. Two stood on opposite wheel wells, panting, smiling with their eyes the way only a happy dog can.

The third, however, snapped to attention as it passed.

The truck stopped at a stop light not far ahead, and as I approached, the third bowser walked to the tailgate, watching me all the while.

That cur was looking at me like I was a 6-foot Snausage. His hackles raised, his ears flattened, and he started pacing. I swear he was trying to decide if he could clear the tailgate, rip out my jugular, drink his fill of my spouting lifeblood and make it back in the bed before the light changed.

And it dawned on me there wasn’t much I could do about it if he did, so I looked away and spoke in soothing tones, as I learned years ago in Boy Scouts. Or is that what you do in case of bear attack? Oh, well, I never paid much attention in Scouts, so I casually felt around for my frame pump, just in case. I figured a couple of whacks should deter Cujo, and if not I could try to overinflate him until he popped.

Fortunately, the light changed, and the truck pulled away before Killer attacked.

As I rode home, I pondered the odd pick-up pooch run-ins.

I know there’s something about folks on bikes that triggers a Pavlovian response in some dogs. I’ve been chased by farm dogs and nearly taken out by seemingly mild-mannered family hounds out for a stroll.

I have to admit I’m a little amused to see tiny toy/miniature yippers with Little Dog Syndrome slobbering and biting at the glass of some cars that pull alongside at lights.

But I’ve always figured any dog well mannered enough to ride in the bed of a pickup would pose little threat to cyclists. Call it natural selection: Any dog that goes leaping out of the back of the truck to chow on a cyclist is going to get hurt at some point.

I guess I’m going to have to rethink that a bit.

From now on, I’ll give all dogs a wide berth, regardless of their method of conveyance.

And if I need to win any of ’em over, I can point them in the direction of a cat that would make a better snack than any cyclist would. Just don’t tell my wife.