A Pack of Dogs

Woke up early this morning. I heard a dog barking in the distance and it brought me back in time...

When I was a kid (8) I witnessed a pack of running dogs. I was living in a rural, wooded area with my family. There was no leash law (not yet anyway) so people would just open their doors and let their dogs out to roam free. There was a lot of dog shit to avoid in the neighborhood.

Some of the turds would be a chalky white and we (my friends and I) would notice this phenomenon once in a while and laugh. We wondered about the strange changes that the turds underwent. What did it mean? Were the dogs sick? Maybe worms were to blame; sucking all the color from the turds on their way out to the lawn. Heavy questions indeed.

Having to scrape dog shit from your sneakers with a stick was a task everyone had to do on occasion. It sucked but it was no big deal. We were used to it. Woe to the kid who tracked it into the house.

I had gotten up early on a Sunday morning and went out to play. My parents were still sleeping. The whole neighborhood was still sleeping. The morning was chilly, wrapped in a mist and dense, sea-gray fog. The fog was so thick it was exciting. Mysterious. I felt like I was on some alien planet or otherworldly dimension. The gloom erased everything in swaths of deep charcoal. I passed through the fog and felt like a ghost.

And then they appeared. They were running, dog tags jingling. They were running toward me, hidden by the fog..

And then they suddenly burst through. There were at least twelve of them. Some I recognized from around the neighborhood. Others I did not.

The dogs had no interest in me. They divided the pack and dogs raced past me on both sides. I stood perfectly still as they passed.

Then they were gone, swallowed by the fog. I stood listening to the fading jingle of the collars.

 

I wondered where they were going. With no one around, they claimed the foggy neighborhood for themselves. To feel wild, like wolves again. I’d seen the Durkin’s German shepherd, Schultz, Mrs. Hanscomb’s little terrier Maxie, Stephanie Kelly’s boyfriend’s pitbull, Butch. Other dogs I didn’t recognize. A hulking Saint Bernard took up the rear. I found it reassuring that all these different dogs congregated every morning and returned to a kind of pack mentality. It must feel good, I thought. Primal. To race through the cool fog feeling feral and happy to be a PART of something. Indulging their canine behaviors with others like them. It was something more powerful and enjoyable than being cooped up and alone with stupid humans; trapped in a house full of strange sounds and smells. And rules.    

The dogs had faded away. The neighborhood was chilly and still once again. I went home to wait for my friends to wake up and come outside,

Then the neighborhood was OURS.