THE DOG

I've often wondered what it is about me that instantly alerts all dogs that I'm afraid of them. I grew up in a rural area where dogs rarely see the end of a leash, an area where they run free, hunt rabbits, dig fleas. pilfer garbage cans, and chase anything that moves. Me, for instance. After having climbed trees, jumped on top of cars, and hurled rocks at them, I began to learn how to cope. You never run around a dog, that's an open invitation to snap at your heals, maybe even your leg. You get off your bike before it sees you coming, and push it slowly, always keeping the bike between you and the dog. Not all dogs are frightened of rocks, Some even consider it a challenge, you may miss, losing your weapon, but they will still have theirs, bared and snarling.

My precautions worked well enough to permit me to regularly visit my grandmother who lived about a mile up another hollow. We called it HAPPY Hollow? I borrowed my sister's bike (being the oldest, she was the first to get anything and everything. No hand me downs there.)

There was a large building located by the railroad tracks and atop a steep hill. We called it the box factory. I flew, literally flew down the black top hill, pumping hard until I reached the Yorks. The Yorks had a Collie. I got off the bike, pushing it slowly in order to get past the Collie. I was just about to get back on the bike when the most fierce dog I've ever seen slipped out from the Mulligan's hedge. His head reached my shoulders. He was black as night, his shiny hair slicked close to his body. His ears, short and pointed angled back like horns. His eyes, red amber, looked at me with satanic shrewedness; he had my number, he had me, had my thoughts before they were mine.

The bike was between us. I pushed it slowly, trying to edge closer to my grandmother's. As though anticipating my plan, he stalked me around the bike, forcing me around the front, using the seat as a pivot, the bike the only barrier. We circled again and again, each time slow and deliberate, preventing any forward progress. A handful of rocks shot through the air and I saw by brother creep toward the dog, armed with a large stick. He sized my brother up but held his ground. We retreated, slowly backing up the road, holding our weapon, the stick, never taking our eyes away until we got to grandmother's bridge.