Page 57 - Demo

55It was an elongated concrete-block grain bin that caught my eye, and caused me to turn into a driveway patrolled by a runty, yapping, rat-like dog. He barked savagely, non-stop, as I spoke to his owner. She said her family was just renting the place, and was uncomfortable granting permission to photograph her landlord%u2019s property. I%u2019d run into this before, and said it was fine, that I understood. As I walked back toward the car, the diminutive devildog started barking and snapping ever more viciously. By the time I reached for the door handle, it was beginning to lunge, with sharp white teeth glistening in the sun, ready to draw blood. Even after I was safely inside the car, and backing toward the road, it yelped like an enraged demon, and continued flashing those nasty fangs%u2014with pure hate in his eyes. That little fiend was far more menacing that Susie. It%u2019s the little ones you really have to watch out for%u2014quick and absolutely fearless. Lynn named it the Yapper.Another small dog of note was a perky Chihuahua, the pet of a family who owned a sagging six-sided barn. The little beast snarled and yipped continuously in an irritatingly high pitch the entire time we were there%u2014and we were there for a while. The CIA could have used it as a canine alternative to water boarding. I know if I%u2019d been subjected to that yelping much longer, I would%u2019ve confessed to anything. As soon as we left, it became known as the Yipper.The saddest dog situation we encountered involved a doghouse sitting a good hundred feet from the owner%u2019s home, under a large oak tree. Limited by a ten-foot chain, the nondescript hound could only roam within a circle of bare soil. It was a hot afternoon, I%u2019d stopped the car by the side of the road, and was consulting one of our many county maps. I looked up and spotted a melancholy scene, which soon became tragic when I saw the master heading the dog%u2019s way, carrying a giant plastic cup of water. The mutt jumped excitedly at the end of its tether, hoping for some much-needed attention. But, after filling up the water dish, the owner turned and ambled back to his house, without a single word, pat, or scratch. The mongrel looked at the retreating figure for a few seconds, then settled quietly back into its patch of bare dirt. It didn%u2019t even lap at the fresh water. I don%u2019t know if it felt depressed or not, but I certainly was.The dogs I liked best were the old ones. Some of these elderly pets barely raised a head as I walked by; others stood up slowly, sauntered unsteadily in my direction on arthritic legs, then lay down to watch what I was doing, without a single vocalization. A decade earlier, they might have barked, growled, or given chase to earn their keep as guardians of the realm. But in their declining years, they%u2019d paid their dues, and were content to just keep an eye on me. Good ol%u2019 dogs.