Carolyn J. Rose
A few nights ago our dog exploded from the “bunker” of blankets between us and ran to the door barking. This was unusual behavior for a ten-year-old mutt known for sleeping through the night with only an occasional grunt as she changes position. Since she’d never been concerned about the sounds of neighbors coming and going after dark, we flipped aside our blankets and, with much creaking of joints, trudged to the window.
What dire threat was bearing down on us at 3 AM? Terrorists? Insurrectionists? A pack of possums? House flippers wanting to buy our home at a deep discount? Evangelists? Aluminum siding salesmen? Librarians coming for those overdue banned books?
None of the above.
Instead, we saw a young man checking recycling bins for cans and bottles. No threat to us. Just a sign of our sad and chaotic economic times.
There was nothing for him in our bin and he moved on quickly. We returned to bed at a slower pace. With a final growl, Nikki joined us.
Before I fell asleep, I thought about other night noises, sounds from my childhood carried on sultry summer air. I recalled the faint bark of a dog from a farm perhaps half a mile away as the crow flew. Two miles if that crow followed the roads. It was a more a bark of affirmation than warning. “I’m a dog. I’m here. I can bark. Listen.”
The next memory is of a screech owl, the sound almost like the whinny of an injured horse, and so unusual and frightening—to my young self—that I woke my father. He assured me the bird was the size of his fist and no danger to me. But until the owl flew off to hunt elsewhere, I could not relax into sleep.
The next summer another sound woke me, a scream that came again and again from the wooded hill behind our house. It sounded like a woman. A woman gripped by pain and terror. I roused my father, but this time he had no ready explanation. He seemed puzzled and even concerned. Definitely concerned. He pulled on jeans and shoes, grabbed a flashlight, and then loaded his rifle.
Naturally he told me to stay home. And naturally I slipped into my sneakers and followed his bobbing flashlight beam across the lawn and up the hill. The scream got louder. We emerged into a clearing and the flashlight beam slid across a brush pile. The next scream came from deep within the heap.
My father shouted. “Who are you? Are you hurt?”
The scream gave a twisted echo of his call.
I scooted up behind him. There were bobcats in the Catskill Mountains. And I’d heard stories about panthers. Panthers screamed. Didn’t they?
My father shouted again. “Answer me. Who are you?”
The next scream was followed by the crackle of breaking
twigs.
My father handed me the light and shouldered his rifle, aiming at the source of the sound. I shivered and cowered behind him, images of teeth and claws and blood filling my brain.
The crackling grew louder.
A final scream morphed into a yip.
A beagle pawed its way from the brush pile and ran off.
My father waited a few moments, then lowered the rifle, made a noise that was half laugh and half sigh of relief, and turned for home. “Probably chased a rabbit in there.”
I’d never seen the dog before and never saw it again. When winter came we burned that brush pile. A few days later I poked through the ashes looking for signs of a rabbit burrow. I found nothing. 70 years later, awakened by other sounds from the darkness, I remember that night and wonder what became of the dog. And the rabbit.