(42 stories & photos)
MY HONEY GAVE A SHOUT as I was heading out: “Going to the post office? Don’t forget your stick!”
If you live up here and like to walk, you’d better pack a whacking big one. Back when I still drove to fetch the mail, I spied an older lady with a stick as tall as she was. She cast a wary eye in my direction as I drove slowly past, trying not to shower her with dust. At the time I figured she suspected my intentions from the fact I was actually obeying the speed limit, but now I know the truth: She probably thought I had my dogs with me.
I didn’t, of course. Lady the Wonder Dog, a white German shepherd mix, had gone to doggy heaven years before. My experience with her had taught me dogs were noble, loyal beasts possessed of wondrous joy and courage. The local variety is, well, different.
The first time I walked to the post office, I saw what surely seemed to be a dog—short-haired, whitish-tan, weighing maybe 30 pounds—except it lay beside the road all covered with dust and didn’t move or twitch, not even when the school bus lumbered past. I ambled closer, tensing for the stench and wondering why there were no flies. As I came within a foot or so, it raised a sullen snout up from the dirt and fixed me with a pinkish stare. “Hey, pooch!” I said with a smile, whereupon it slowly rose, paced nervously back and forth behind me once or twice, then scuttled off into the weeds.
Not a good sign, I reasoned. This was confirmed when I rounded a curve a hundred yards farther along and there she was. A sharp-eared, pointy-faced, black-and-white mutt with impossibly swollen tits, she shot out through a hole in the mangled fence surrounding a sad adobe and proceeded to bark insanely, making repeated runs at my ankles. I went into full dog-tamer mode, squatting down and saying, “Good dog, gooood dog” in a lowpitched, reassuring voice, which only heightened her hysteria. In the bare dirt yard behind the fence, a small white curly-haired beast, cute in any other context, ricocheted back and forth on the end of a short, rusty chain, yipping furiously. The pointy-faced ringleader ran back and forth in front of me, eyes red with fear and pain, whipping her nipples through the dust and looking for an opening. Her wretched pups emerged from hiding and ran around in circles. The din was merciless, but of course no one came to lend a hand or see what was the matter.
By this time the commotion had attracted three or four other bedraggled canine vigilantes, and I knew that I was licked. Shaking my head, I stood up and resumed my walk. The crazed, panting mob followed me only a short distance down the road and then retreated quickly to wait for my return.
The same scenario has repeated itself, with variations, every single day we’ve gone to get the mail. On the way back from one early encounter, I stopped in at the Valley Store to ask the proprietress why anyone would ever keep such a dog. My arrival having been preceded by the daily ruckus, she not surprisingly anticipated my remarks and spoke up first: “I don’t know where that dog comes from!”
“The nasty one with the puppies?” I asked.“Yes, that one. Somebody came by and dropped her in the road, because she was pregnant, you know. I guess somebody’s feeding her. I don’t know where she belongs.”
So much for that!I took to carrying a long stout stick on subsequent walks and learned a few more things about the evil pointy-faced one: the first time I placed the pole across her throat to push her away from my leg, I had the distinct impression that she liked it. A stroke is a stroke, after all. The second time I had the pleasure, I caught her in mid-bark and was rewarded with a satisfying strangled gurgle that made my day. The third time she met my stick she tried to eat it, and that’s the way it’s been ever since.
When I’m not there the ragged pack keeps fit by chasing cows, and when I am I use my latest curse: “Back! Back! Back to hell from where you came!” The neighbors peer from curtained windows and cross themselves, but the dogs seem strangely reassured, as if relieved to know their provenance.
But I still take my stick.