Why the Dogs?
A story about fear.
Four writers, including me, went on retreat at a farmhouse in rural Michigan. During a morning prompt writing session, one of the writers told a story about her fear of dogs. When she was a child, a neighbor who did not like the color of her skin sent his dog to attack her as she walked by his home on her way to a friend’s house. I told her that I had a similar fear because I’d been bitten on the wrist by a Dachshund while sitting on my grandmother’s porch in Prescott, Arizona over a Fourth of July rodeo holiday weekend. I was taken to the emergency room for treatment, but that department also contained several cowboys and spectators who’d been injured due to a mishap in the arena. My dog bite was small potatoes next to broken collarbones, gashed shins, a concussion, and perhaps even a case of alcohol poisoning.
Between work-shopping what we’d already created and generating new writing with the help of prompts, I needed to clear my mind of verbs and nouns, so I took advantage of the afternoon’s hour and a half break to be alone. “Walking solves everything,” is one of my most useful mantras, so I took its advice.
Asphalt is all I know of the roads in the city where I live, but the surface of the road in front of the farmhouse is grey-white powder, stabilized with random scatterings of irregularly shaped stones — gravel-not-gravel. The moment I left the concrete sidewalk between the front door and the street my black shoes accepted the fact of a walk that would be full of dust. I knew I would have to step onto the grassy shoulder of this road to allow a few farmers driving trucks towing machinery and kids in full-face helmets on All Terrain Vehicles (ATVs) pass.
The road was straight and led to a railroad crossing. It passed a stand of trees — a miniature forest of oaks and maples — and pine trees planted on grids and allowed to grow until becoming sacrificed for Christmas décor. A slight uphill climb put me on the railroad tracks and allowed me to look east and west until those real life lines of perspective merged on their way to Port Huron, on their way to Lansing. Each view allowed time for a deep breath, a pause to be reminded of how some paths involve the complicated work of building both infrastructures and vehicles that use it.
Now downhill, walking north, the sun was shining strong on my left shoulder. As I passed a field that had just been harvested, brown stubble and dark loam made me think of a favorite sweater, still deep in a drawer, waiting for winter. Still ahead was the place where the road crossed over a stream, and beyond the stream, perhaps a quarter of a mile, was the cemetery where many of the gravestones marked births that had taken place around 180 years ago. That cemetery was my planned destination.
It was not to be.
Out of…where…?…I saw two large dogs with bright brown fur and black tails loping towards me, pink tongues hanging. From their pointed ears, my intellect discerned German Shepherd lineage. From their jaws, I knew their attitude was Pit Bull. My body pumped adrenaline as if it were a teenager and chills opened every hair follicle. Intuition turned me around and kept me walking calmly back towards the familiar farmhouse where my friends were writing fiction.
In my nonfiction story being writ in the air, I did not scream. Nor did I speak to the dogs. I didn’t hear the word “fear” materialize in my brain. I didn’t look the dogs in the eyes. Were my jeans still dry and unladen? Yes, check. Then each hand placed itself, crisscross, atop the gray cotton t-shirt I wore, fingers touching the collar seam under my tense jaw.
And I walked on. Staring ahead. Nouns and verbs flooded back in and made themselves into a fury of silent questions. Why did the dogs not attack me? Who could save me if they decided to attack? Why were they being nice? How long would they walk with me? What did they want from me?
After the last question, I decided to talk with them silently. Yes, I made the decision that ESPing with two ferocious dogs not wearing collars, not seeming to belong to anyone with a sense of responsibility, was going to work for me in this unusual situation.
OK, so here we are, dogs, you and me. Thank you for being nice. Maybe you two are just curious about this person who has appeared to you like you two appeared to me. Were you scared of me? Well, you don’t look like you’d be scared of anything! The two of you put together weigh more than I do so why don’t you see me as prey? Oh, right…prey. I forgot to pray…wait a minute, that God thing I pray to is a big ball of energy. Dear Energy Ball, get me back to the farmhouse safe. Let me trust that all will be well. Help me find a way to love this experience I’m having…oh and that these two energetic dogs are having. Let us continue to be curious. But thanks for the adrenaline. I didn’t think my body could even do that anymore.
Although I did not pray for a savoir, one came along as I neared the railroad tracks. A gold-colored van crossed over and rolled down the hill. An elderly man — white hair, red, white, and blue plaid shirt — leaned out the driver’s side window and said, “Nice pups you have there, miss!”
I dropped my hands and clasped them in front of my belly button. “They aren’t mine. I don’t live around here. I’m from Arizona.”
The man’s face reflected a bit of surprise, but he kept smiling…and so did I. Now I was a woman without fear being recognized as an outsider, without having to tell the man that I was scared, without having to ask if he would please drive me home. I was just a smiling woman who was walking along with two big, ferocious dogs. As the man commented on the nice weather and told me to “have a good time” one of the dogs came up to the van and growled, and then whimpered at me as if to say, “Stop talking. Let’s keep going.”
Plaid shirt man drove away, and his van left a small cloud of powder in its wake. Because I was on the side of the road now, I noticed an overgrown bush that had some kind of smooth dark berries on it. I plucked a twig and bent it into a V-shape, a wishbone, and held it under my chin with both hands as I resumed walking.
The dogs seemed content. Every now and then, they’d race away and sniff things they found in the vegetation off the shoulder of that road. Most of the time, they walked in tandem with me, one on my right, one on my left.
Are you thirsty, dogs? If you are, there is a spring-fed pond coming up on our right. You can get a drink there.
The pond was near the farmhouse. If they went to chase the two geese I saw that were resting on the pond’s far shore, or if they went to slake their thirst, I could run ahead to the farm and let myself inside through the front door.
The dogs were not thirsty. They were not interested in the geese. They continued their escort service. Before I reached the walkway to the front door, I saw a dirt clod with a dead plant stem attached to it. I picked it up and threw it towards the road and they ran after it. I had just enough time to go inside the farmhouse, shut the door, and then go around a corner to look out of a window to see what they were doing. Each of them came to the front door as if they were looking for me. I pulled out my iPhone and made a short video.
Now filled with relief that the ordeal was over, I thought I heard one of them say, Where are you?
And then I thought I heard the other one say, Well that was fun, lady.
But my questions would not cease. As I lay in bed trying to sleep that night, I was saying over and over Why the dogs? Why the dogs? Why the dogs?
And then I realized that my why was about fear. Not just my fear of dogs, but my fear — mixed with horror, disappointment, heartbreak, and a tremendous sense of injustice — about how many innocent people in America right now are feeling fear of the unknown as it comes after them…out of…where…?…. Out of hatred that stands upon a foundation of fear. What is it that prevents the fear-filled, hate-filled stalker-dogs from walking alongside those who are peaceful, those who have dreams, those who contribute goodness to their personal realms, and those who promote aspects of love without the need to harm them? Why must the stalker and its henchmen take innocent people (even if they are geographically misplaced) to institutions where fear, fear, and more fear abound?
Why the dogs?
