Playing With Wild Dogs

They were howling away again. Goldie is not sure they are howling for her. When she first heard them she ran to the fence, tail wagging and ears perked and sounds frozen in her throat. She now recognizes the howling for what it is, the frantic call to the kill. Her charge to the fence is now territorial and the low growl growing to one long low bark took a full year to mature. She stands staring through the iron bars, her neck hair on glorious end in a mane shaped Mohican. Calls to her go unheard. The howling subsides without moving and ends. She paces along the fence, Mohican still at stand and growls in a mumble releasing pent up energy in small bursts. This is not gentle Whitehall with its ambling toothy, bitey woodchuck. The rabbits are here too, but they are faster and many of them tall as a three year old child. The sounds here pull on all to alert. Without ears up and stillness listening, danger can fly at you unseen. Finally, after this first year passes, one has learned that this random state of high alert charges the body with particles of youth and adrenalin. This stress, rather than dragging it all out of you, fills you with a rush of life that once it settles raises you to a taller plain. The long charcoal stress of traffic, pollution, hated work is what ages and kills vessels. This stress flashes and flames and energizes. People live longer here, the stats say. Do dogs? copyright 2009 vickers