Dogs on the Road of Death

My feet had barely hit the driveway at my parents’ house when all hell broke loose. The world exploded with barking.

“The dog got out,” my kindergarten-aged niece said from the other side of my parents’ backyard fence. This was the same kid who once reported that she had been attacked by a beaver at bed time in her own house —an allegation that to this day remains unverified—so her report had to be viewed with skepticism. Then I noticed that she was standing there holding the gate open. “The dog got out” should have been amended to “I let the dog out.” And “dog” should have been amended to “dogs.” Half the pack had escaped. My siblings keep getting small canines and then bringing them home for the holidays. You know those massive herds of wildebeests that black out the savannah? Imagine that, but with Yorkies and jack russell terriers. When they move, the ground quakes under their tiny feet. And now, the pack had breached the small picket fence that separated them from certain death. Happy Thanksgiving.

The two smallest and dumbest dogs took off at a dead run toward Ginger Street, the busiest road in my parents’ town. Parking on the street is a great idea if you want someone to knock off your side mirrors and then speed away without leaving a note. No one in my family ever leaves their vehicle out there due to the absolute certainty of a hit-and-run accident. A friend once parked on the street and walked up to the house. Before he reached the front door, someone nailed his car. That was where the dogs were headed. All that stood between them and a tragic flattening were me and my girls. The race was on.