I awake this morning, open the toilet lid, crack open the blinds for some moonlight, glance outside, and freeze. I realize this is a day no pee will come.
Me: “Um, there are some large–possibly dead–animals lying in our driveway…”
Pretty Bride (from the bedroom): “What?”
Me: “Tetonka! Tetonka!”
I summon my guardian and protector–Winnie Cooper, the 30lb Jack Russell/Dachshund mix. We walk onto the front porch.
Still no movement in the driveway. Winnie cowers.
I turn on the porch light. Suddenly, three 120lb+ dogs rise from the driveway and lope across the backyard towards the kudzu-covered drainage culvert the City of Atlanta owns that marks our rear boundary.
Friends and Neighbors: —
I decide these must be the wild dogs I’ve read about on our neighborhood listserv. I also decide that no one comes to the rescue of a boy who cries “Wolf” anymore, even if it is the first time.
I notice something lying in the matted grass the beasts have just left. It gleams in the moonlight…something shiny, yet dull…something clearly torn apart by the claws and fangs only the undomesticated beast can instinctively utilize.
I slowly walk towards the carcass; Winnie stays on the porch and whimpers.
A few more steps, and I am able to recognize the shredded carrion: my Wall Street Journal. Those damned dogs had torn it apart like it was a goat in a Buzkashi match.
I run inside, grab my shotgun, sprint into the backyard, and scream, “YOU HOUNDS OF HELL–YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!” into the silent morning, as awakened floodlights illuminate the next door neighbors’ yard.
All the while, my newspaper gently weeps.
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