I took this picture of Blue last Fourth of July. I was working in the yard and Blue was at his post watching me. He's built for this porch. He can stand all day watching squirrels. It's truly his favorite place to be other than walking the sidewalks of our neighborhood.






Here he is in the daytime vigorously staring out at the birch tree in the front yard; the tree teeming with squirrels.


I haven't been writing much lately. Well,that's not entirely true. I've been working on the eternal book, that book destined to be forever in its infancy, swaddled tightly within the arms of my little laptop, never to see the light of publishing. It's there. It's written. I just have to take the months and months to lay it out like a quilt and piece it together.

But in the meantime, I do write little things from time to time. I wrote this one last summer. It's a dog story, a true dog story.


The Attack

I love to walk with Blue. I rescued him from the pound. Ole Blue’s about the most earnest and best dog friend I’ve ever had. We have a connection. We need each other. Blue and I live in a 1925 bungalow with Billy, my husband, and his dog Gertie. Gertie's a yip-yip dog. Blue's a manly dog.
Our house is a typical old fashioned porch enclosed by a low brick wall and three brick pillars. Blue will stand all day at the porch wall. Its just about his height. He puts his chin on the white concrete ledge that runs along the top of it and stares out into the street or up into the birch tree looking for squirrels.
When I wash my face in the mornings, it’s a sign to Blue that we’re going for a walk. He rushes from where I stand at the lavatory to the front door then back to me then back to the front door. When I grab the towel to dry my face it's a sign to him. His 60 pound body floats straight up into the air like genie being let out of a bottle. His body lifts in exultation as if to say, "At last we’re headed for our sidewalks!"
Yesterday when Blue and I went for our usual morning walk in the much cooler Memphis air we’d just turned onto a busy street when Blue was attacked by two large dogs that came from a partially fenced in yard.
I held on tightly to his leash, fearing that if he got out of his collar he’d be forced into the mindless speeding traffic, yet I feared what these dogs might do to him if he wasn’t able to fully defend himself or flee.
I screamed, “Please someone help me!” I kicked at the dogs and continued to scream. Miraculously they stopped and ran off behind the house where they had been before the attack. I shook with terror as we ran toward home, a terror that soon turned to anger. How could anyone be so irresponsible with their animals?
Billy and I discussed the incident when I got home. We decided I should drive over to the house where the dogs were and see if I could find their owner.
“I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” I said as I stormed toward the car. My husband followed and offered this as I opened the door of the car, “Melinda, I know you’re upset, but trust me, don’t approach with anger you’ll only make the person defensive. Try starting off with a question, like –– “Excuse me, did you know your dogs were loose?’”
Good idea. scheesch.
As I pulled into the driveway I spotted the dogs. I drove slowly around to the back of the house where I noticed in the distance a woman, alone, pushing a lawnmower. I waved. She turned off the mower and walked toward me.
“Excuse me,” (a hem) “did you know your dogs have been out?”
“Really?”
“They attacked my dog, they ganged up on him and attacked him in front of your house.”
“Oh no,” she said as she pulled her hands to her flushed cheeks.
I carefully recounted the incident so that she could be properly horrified and hopefully repentant.
“I am so sorry. I am so very sorry.”
The dogs in question were by now lying in the driveway like wet rags wagging tired friendly tails. I got out my car. They came toward me wanting to be petted. I petted each head then turned to the young woman. We began to talk. I noticed toys in the yard but saw no children.
“Do you have children?” I asked. She nodded and tears came into her eyes.
“They’re with their father,” she explained, “they’re afraid to stay with me right now.”
And she began to recount her own tale of terror from only a few days before. She’d been standing in her kitchen she told me when she heard a huge crash. Two men had broken through a heavy side door and were standing in her living room. She screamed, grabbed her children and ran out the back door where two more buglars were waiting. Hysterical, she continued to scream while her two frightened dogs, chained and in the back yard, barked furiously and helplessly looking on as their owner tried to protect herself and her children.
Thankfully, the burglars fled. I guess they were frightened too, but the damage had been done. She and her children had been invaded, violated. They no longer felt safe in their own home.
She told me she’d just let her dogs out for a moment as she was preparing to cut the yard. She was afraid to be out in the yard without them. Apparently the dogs felt they were defending their home when they jumped on Blue.
I reached out and hugged her. We talked. I told her if she wanted I’d help her build a fence. I ached. I cried, too and later I even dreamed about her in the night.
You know I have to say, I was ready to let that woman have it with both barrels and the last thing I expected was this: to hurt for her, to understand her, to want to do something, anything to make her day, her life, better.
She’ll figure things out, I’m sure. She’ll build a security fence or sell the house. She’ll find a place of safety for her and for her children.
And as for me? I’m going to try to remember one thing.
What’s that you ask?
* * * *
You just never know. You just never, never know.