I refused to punch back, intuitively preferring the neutral defensive
as this angry ball of venom huffed, swirled and thrashed my increasingly
alarmed pink carcass.
Of course winter garb muffled blows.
Rounding the station wagon’s side, which could be perceived as boxing ring ropes, I felt her weight bearing down as I backpedaled, nearly losing my balance.
Then something remarkable happened: she started throwing a right cross or reasonable facsimile thereof, and without even thinking, I gently lifted under her elbow as it came forward and pushed with a circular akin-to-Aikido motion as she fell face-first on the leaves, unhurt.