BEEN LOOKING FOR US? DOG IS COMING--DOG GOING IS GOD?

I've been gone awhile. So, I want to post something. You will get gripes, kudos, maybe something humorous, and perhaps an almost unrelated dream or two.

We had granddaughter and grand-dog care this last week. Always fun. The pictures here are Lulu. Xena, a black, long-haired retriever, a large medium-sized dog if you will (50 or 60 lbs) was staying here. She is cuddly, friendly, and really wants to be a lap dog. She is pretty gentle if a tad clumsy. 

We have a decent sized back yard for a dog or two. There's a gentle hill behind us, critters, and bushes to run through and dirt to dig in. The dogs run up the hill to bark at the dogs on the other side of the fence, run back down the hill to bark at the people who are irresponsible enough to walk on the public street, and back up the hill to bark at any squirrel, blue jay, or chickadee that dares enter their yard.

Inside, our house is long. Running from our back bedroom to the front window to bark is a mad dash, running down the hall, a slide on our poor hard wood floors and either a look under the picture windows at the side of the living room, or as you see here, a look, bark, and whine at the walkers. I might mention, there are a lot a dog things to stare at out the windows. Those dog walkers, joggers and walkers, bicycle riders, an occasional horse and rider, cats, birds, skunks, and possums.

You know what, I love the sound of the galloping through the house. I love yard patrol those dogs put in. In no way am I a fan of the digging, but well, they are dogs.

I will tackle pit bulls once again. For any fans of these dogs, I have caved a little. You want a pit bull, feel free. They are not my particular favorites. They are overbred. Too many get sent to the pounds. And, while I see pit bulls and interact with them personally fine, professionally they are a pain in the ass. Let me explain this. I was a mailman for a good many years. I did not tolerate loose pits. I don't trust them. Don't now. Never will. And a pit bull that gets loose, whether it is when the owner opens his front door, or when the dog escapes a fenced yard or garage, they are not under an owner's control. I hate that, and whether anyone wants to admit it or not, pit owners have a duty to protect the public from their dogs from really injuring someone. Many pit bull owners think they can allow their dogs to roam without controls. Technically that is true as long as the dog is in a fenced yard or in the house, but hey, pit bull owners, once you open your door, once that dog jumps or digs out under a fence, you are not in control of the dog.

I will guarantee you that every day this happens to a mail carrier in the U.S. He or she comes to the door with a package or letter to be signed. The customer brings their barking dog to the door (it's worse if the dog doesn't bark, much scarier) the door opens and there is a dog going crazy right at the carrier's feet, The carrier changes first white, then red, and then he or she starts chewing out the customer. If it is a pit bull that charges out the door, the carrier could be in trouble. If it is a girl scout selling cookies...

Sorry guys, I will never be a fan of these dogs. I feel sorry that any dog suffers mistreatment. In this situation though, I fear people still don't care to understand the danger. If you are one of those great pit owners, sorry to offend. You are doing a great job, but realize, no matter what, the best dog is still at heart an animal with instincts. 

Again, if your pit is sweet as pie and would not hurt a flea, God bless your great work. But I would never have a pit or pit mix around my grandchildren.

Finally, through the years I have had this dream several times. I think I had it just the other night. We raised chickens for awhile when the kids were little. The raccoons got them I think. Anyway, I dream that we are keeping chickens again, or other birds, and sometimes other small animals. I dream that either I, or some other person has not fed these birds for months at a time. They are living in a big coop, and while sometimes in the dream I find some dead creatures, most are living still--kept going by poking around through the scattered seeds they make such a mess with during the good times, when they were being fed.

Most of the time I get my dreams. When I used to dream I was crawling on a path in Yosemite, I knew it was because of my back injury and my fear that it might cripple me. 

Now, last night I dreamed I lost a very personal piece of human equipment. Yes, I mean personal, like it had been cut off and it was in my pocket. Freud would have a field day with that one I suppose. I sure as hell hope that will not be a recurring dream.

Peace all. Remember, area shelters have a lot of dogs. If they don't have the one you want one day, try going a different day. Try going to a different shelter. Also there are great organizations like Baja S.A.F.E. run by great people like Isabelle Ann Tiberghien. 

If you see a dog you like on her site, you may be able to adopt that dog and have it sent on to you.
They can always use donations as well. It is safe and easy to donate to these guys.
http://www.bajasafe.com/index.html

TWO DOGS--ONE NOT NAMED DAISY

This is our dog, Lulu. She's older now, about 11 and she has taken to peeing in the wrong places to note her disapproval of us locking her in the bedroom if we go away--she pees on our bed. She's apparently fed up with car rides--she pees in the car. And, most recently, when her "cousin" Xena showed up for us to keep this week, she peed on Xena's dog bed. Xena is my daughter's dog.

So we have a rotating pack of three mutts racing around this house at any time. Xena, Moo my other daughter's dog, and Lulu. Our backyard is larger than the kids. We have critters--squirrels, skunks, raccoons, rats, mice, birds, and possums. They chase up our hill, then down to the gate by the front yard and back, perhaps to check the gate at the other side of our house. They run behind the bushes, and sometimes they come out smelling like rosemary or lavender, two herbs growing in our yard.

They race and bark as they run through the house to look out the front window at any passing human walking their dog. This demands barking, whining, running to the backroom, only to come charging back to the front for another grumble. It can be canine chaos whenever two dogs gather at Grandma and Grandpa's. (I admit, my own dog leads the others in this behavior.)

I'd like to say this noisy behavior bothers me, but in general, it doesn't. While Lulu is not a particularly social animal, she reluctantly suffers her company, and even can be caught joining in a game of tug of war with Xena. Sometimes, Xena will put her black furry face in mine in the middle of the night to check my wakefulness. A warm tongue in the face usually does the trick. Yes, I was awake.

So, the point? These three former pound puppies are always welcome. They join us here, all, for holidays and functions. They're family after all.

Perhaps the one of the things my wife and I can be proud of creating in our children and hopefully our grandchildren, is the love of dogs. It couldn't hurt.

Dogs at the Gate. A Christmas Dog Ghost Tale. (Repost)

Christmas is a time for ghost stories. It is an English tradition and some of the most famous English/Irish writers engaged in Christmas ghost tales--including of course Dickens, MR James, RL Stevenson. This is my dog ghost story, written (perhaps) in the old style--reposted. Hope you enjoy it and Happy Holidays.

I am not a man who is easily misled. Never have I believed in creatures of the night, nor specters, nor ghoulies, nor goblins. As a God-fearing man, even if I were a sort who believed in the preternatural, I trust in the Lord to protect me.

Now, I have walked the road leading from The Golden Friars public house to my own home a thousand times. The trip is little more than a mile. It leads past no place of notoriety. No sites of ancient scaffolding line the road. There is neither church yard nor graves. Whether I have had my fill of ale, or none; whether darkness or twilight, I had never so much as stumbled upon that road.

That is, until Bindon Babel returned.

Bindon was the eldest child of Silas Babel, a villain already old when I was born. Silas married his young second cousin, and she was more beast of burden than mate. Those who remembered him better than I, said he lost his wife from fever soon after the birth of the last child. Many felt Silas' mistreatment led to his poor wife's death. The elder Babel had two sons and a daughter. His daughter, who had taken her mother's place as workhorse, died of consumption at 15; and some six months after, the youngest son died when a tree he'd attempted to fell, fell upon him--or so Silas swore.

Silas Babel lived on a rocky plot of land with an unkempt orchard surrounding it. This land joined the road I spoke of earlier by way of a broken gate. The Babel home was little more than a hovel. Here Silas drank and rarely ventured outside. Villagers called him Godless. They said he'd never darkened the door of a church except when he enslaved his wife.

The son Bindon left to travel and find fortune for the sake of his family. When his sister and brother died, the surviving brother attended neither funeral. Some 15 years later, Silas Babel also died. If not for a black dog howling outside the door, Silas might not have been found for weeks. As it was, in death, the pale, wrinkled Silas looked little changed from his living self. Again, the son failed to return for services. In all the years of his absence, neither sister, brother, father, nor anyone from the village heard from or about Bindon Babel.

Then, some dozen years after the death of his father, the remaining Babel from the village, returned.

Rumors at the Golden Friars spread for weeks. Some said Bindon had been a mercenary on the continent, and amassed a small fortune in loot. Others swore he'd been aboard a coastal raider prowling the waters of West Africa. A third rumor put Bindon in America at the head of a gang of thieves and murderers. No one, frequenters of the public house, or the wags who passed tales at the back fence, figured Bindon had acquired his money by legal means. But make no mistake, it seemed as if this Babel at least had a surplus of money.

This money, ill-gotten or no, Bindon Babel hurriedly spent. First he married. Like his father, he found a girl much younger than himself. And, like his father, he mistreated the poor thing. Then, he gambled on cards and the races. He drank too much. He travelled with men with shady pasts. In a matter of months, he gambled, misplaced, or invested without return most all his funds. Soon, his wife, misused always, caught a chill and died. Bindon Babel disappeared into the same hovel as his father, broken and mad.

Then, I witnessed the odd events that began along the road from Golden Friars. First, every night for some weeks, I saw a small black dog I'd never seen before at the gate to Babel's land. The dog sat without seeming to notice me as I passed. Then, one twilight, Bindon, weaving, held onto the gate, staring out at the road. Perhaps I wanted talk for the public house, or perhaps I felt neighborly, even with a man such as this, so I greeted Babel.

"Good evening, sir," I said. "Where is your dog this evening?"

"I have no dog," he said, "and this evening has nothing to recommend it."

Taken aback, I bid the man farewell.

The very next night, a black dog stood at Babel's gate. It seemed odd, but the dog had grown considerably, as if it had shot up in stature in just a day. Also, while it again seemed to take little notice of me, something in its demeanor struck me as more aggressive.

A week later after this second sighting of the dog, Bindon again appeared at his gate. He stood some way out into the road, looking in one direction then the other. This time he addressed me.

"Have you seen anything strange around here?" he asked.

"There is a stray or perhaps two stray black dogs who sit at your gate in the evenings. This is all I can report."

Bindon Babel cursed then, and without another word, dashed through the gate.

The next evening, yet a larger black dog, very similar to the first two--so similar that they must have come from the same family--appeared at the gate. This animal's fur stood up along the top of his spine and neck. Though it took little notice of me, I put as much distance as the road allowed between it and me.

As I walked along the road toward my house, behind me I heard the panting of a dog. Afraid, I turned, but saw nothing. I looked about, to each side of the road but saw nothing. I retraced my steps, and found no dog. Naturally, I thought of the black dogs from Babel's, but I saw nothing. Yet, when I resumed my way home, again I heard the panting of a dog following me. Again I stopped. The panting stopped, but I saw nothing. I started home again, and the panting started again. I ran then, alarmed.

The very next day Bindon again stood by his gate, in obvious distress. He asked me if I had seen anything odd that night. I told him a family of strays must have adopted his land as home and that one had followed me last night. In truth, I thought these animals must be Babel's.

"I am worried I may be mauled along the road some evening," I said. "Someone should get the sheriff to remove these brutes."

I thought Babel might admit that this family of animals belonged to him, and that he'd curse me for my comment. Instead, he agreed with me.

"Yes. The sheriff is a good idea. These devils roam my property late at night. I can't sleep. They scratch at my door. They whine. Sometimes I hear them growling near the windows. Fetch the sheriff. They're devils." He then spit out another string of profanities.

The next evening, as I approached Babel's gate with trepidation, another even larger dog stood. It took no notice of me, but I dashed past it, wishing I had a club for protection. Again, I heard an invisible dog of some great size panting behind me all the way home. When I mentioned this to my wife, she suggested that the dog probably followed me behind a hedge and that in the dusk, I would not necessarily have seen him.

"But I never saw him hedge or not, yet I heard him still."

My wife shrugged, but seemed unconcerned.

The next evening, and it was early evening this time, on my way from the Golden Friars, Babel sat in the dirt in the road, in front of his gate, crying.

"I'm not a bad man," he said. "My poor mother. My poor wife. I should have come home. Brother, sister. I should have come home. There was enough for all. Did you know them?"

"I had seen your wife several times," I said.

"Poor girl. She deserved better. She never did no wrong. Not to a living soul. It's all my fault. I deserve it. I surely deserve it. They'll never let me rest." With that, he rose, and trudged through his gate.

The next day, an even larger black dog stood at the gate. This time the animal eyed me every step. It seemed ready to pounce on me, and seemed to be guarding the entrance to Babel's property. I sprinted past the gate. All the way home, I ran. Behind me, unseen, some great hound chased me, panting and growling.

It took nearly a week for me to recover from my fright. The next time I went to the Golden Friars, I asked a few of the lads to accompany me home. A couple of ales each at my expense gained me this gang. We all carried sticks. All the way to Babel's the younger men bragged what they would do to any dog that dared to molest me or them. Then, at Babel's gate, five black dogs of various size stood near the road.

At the sight of us, the dogs began to howl. They crowded through the gate then, still howling, and somehow, they disappeared. The bunch of us heard nothing from them. None of us had been to Babel's since he'd returned. As soon as we came within sight of the dilapidated house, we noticed the door standing open, and the windows broken through.

"Bindon!" we cried. "Babel. Bindon Babel!"

No answer came from the house. As a group, we decided to enter. Perhaps the dogs were inside the house.

Inside, we found no dogs. We did find Bindon Babel on the floor. It looked as if he'd been attacked by wolves. His clothes were shredded. His entire body was covered with blood and in some places one could see the bites. Upon a table sat a sheet of paper. "The dogs are walking on two legs," it read.

Whew! So I Saw This Dog...repost of a dog adverture

So I saw this dog in a pet store window the other day who even knew there were pet stores anymore, but I saw this dog in this pet store

window and I had to go into the place and tell them it was too damn hot for the dog out in the window and what the hell did they think they were doing torturing a little dog like that, especially one that cost $650 for a little dog I could see if a big dog cost that much but this dog was little and not even that cute and it was burning up in the heat of the window so I told this dumb-ass woman in the store that it was too damn hot in the window and I didn't even know they had pet stores anymore and she said well they do and I said well this is why they don't have them anymore because some dumb idiot like you leaves an expensive dog that isn't even that cute in the window to burn up and the lady said mind your own business the dog is just fine it's not that hot, so I said get the damn dog out of the window or I will do it myself and she said get the hell out before she calls the cops and I said call the damn cops I dare you because they will arrest you for animal cruelty and she ignored me and started for the phone while I started for the window and so this damn woman comes over and lays her hands on me SHE LAYS HER HAND ON ME I said don't you lay your hands on me I'm going to get this damn too expensive mutt out of the window before he or she burns the hell up you stupid dog-hating bitch and she runs over to the phone and I can't figure out how to open the blasted window up to let the dog out so I'm looking around the store and they don't have anything in there to help open the door but fish tanks full of ugly little too expensive fish and a couple of fucking lizards that I swear are dead cause they don't move and I can't find a thing but I pick up this big leash and decide I am somehow going to attach it to the window and to the bumper of my car and in the meantime this animal hating little tramp is on the phone, yes she's stealing and threatening me and I say I'm not threatening you you fucking tramp ass little slut son of a heathen bitch and if you keep it up I'll really show you when you're being threatened but she just goes on and on with the police they say I should stay on the line they're coming right away and I said sure they are like the police don't have better things to do than to protect some dog hating little fucking tramp who is too stupid to know when she is killing an animal but the police come and I point out what the hell is happening she is murdering little fucking dog mill too expensive puppies and you should be talking to her and nonetheless NONETHELESS they take me to jail then to observation and then they let me out and the fucking psychiatrist tells me the day that I get out that maybe I should look into getting a companion animal maybe like a dog or something.

Sgt. Prestleton & His Wonder Dog Prince Return!

Sergeant Prestleton, his wonder dog Prince, and  his new partner, the lovely Private Fox sat around the campfire one fall evening, eating beans. The Sergeant sat watching the sparks float up from the fire, and disappear into the night sky.
Private Fox and Prince kept a steady eye on their companion. The Sergeant sighed.
"What's up, handsome," asked Private Fox. "Cat got your tongue?"
Prince shook his head. He disliked these "feline" expressions, especially from a female named Fox. Such nonsense was entirely uncalled for.
Sgt. Prestleton sighed.
"What's up, Tiger," Private Fox asked.
Prince had to turn his head. Such rot.
"Well," the female tried again.
"I don't know," said the sergeant. "I just can't explain it. Something has me down."
"Is it me honey?" she asked. "Is partnering up with me a disappointment."
"No, no," said the sergeant.
Private Fox looked up a the mantle of stars above her. She smiled, and looked at her partner. "Is it Prince? Is that old flea bag bothering you?"
Prince looked at the female with disbelief.
"No, no," said the sergeant.
"You worried about the case, Sugar?"
The sergeant, Private Fox, and Prince had spent days tracking that notorious female horse thief, Lil' Latin Loup Garou without success.
"No," he said. "You know, sometimes I just get kind of down. I can't really explain it."
Private Fox and Prince got up and sat next to their companion. Prince licked his master's hand.
Private Fox put her arm around the sergeant. "That's called life, sweetheart. Sometimes you take life by the short hairs, and other times, well, other times, it's got you. It's nothing to worry about. Prince and I are here."
Again, the dog licked his master's hand.
Private Fox kissed her man on the cheek. She brushed his jaw lightly with her fingers, as if rubbing the lipstick off his face.
The sergeant smiled for a moment, then hung his head again.
"It's okay, honey," she said. "I get it. I understand. Life is a marathon, not a sprint. We still love you. Don't give up."
He sighed, "Not me," he said. "Not me."
The sergeant thought for a moment, then he imagined the stars falling like rain onto his head, filling his brain with light.
Prince settled down next to the fire. Private Fox hummed a tune. There were plenty of beans left in the pot.

Maybe Cute, Not Too Amazing Dogs

I got up at my usually late hour this morning and danced with my dog. No, my dog can't do a series of involved dance steps. She puts her paws up on my legs and I dance her around until she looks like she is too embarrassed for words (which she is) and I let her down and then soon after make her do it again. We used Joni Mitchell's Court and Spark for dancing this morning.

I used to dance on Sunday mornings with my girls--wife included if I remember. XTC's Senses Working Overtime taught them to count to five. "1-2-3-4-5-senses working overtime..."

I hope they remember the routine as well as the dog does. We'd dance, then use the cd boxes to torture the cat by shining the reflection on the wall. Cats are tortured by things like that. Dancing too is torture to a cat not doubt. You can't get up on a weekend morning and dance with a cat. Dogs may be tortured or embarrassed by dancing with their human, but they are too damn nice to complain and bite you or something. A cat thinks nothing of scratching the person who feeds it if that person annoys him or her. Imagine if your dog scratched and bit you every time you made him feel silly. You'd be a mess.

Now I can turn this piece into whatever I want. I can go on about how fun dogs are and what a drag cats are. I can turn it into a nostalgia piece about dancing with my little girls when they were...little girls. I could go on about Joni Mitchell or XTC. Maybe we could talk about reflections... I write so damn well, I can pontificate about just about any subject including mornings.

Let me instead, go on about my favorite subject--me. Yes, I am one Narcissistic human as I have been told, diagnosed, and realize. I'm lucky as hell to get up this morning and dance with the dog. This last week has been holy hell for my state of mind. I battled doubt, confusion, and craziness and came out of it and danced with the dog. My dog went right along with the joke. No bites or scratches. Better yet, I never bit or scratched anyone either.

You know, I have been in this group for awhile and we have been talking about a self-soothing kit. Five cool things you can have around to take the edge off a bad day or bad few minutes. Well, I'm going  to do it. In a way, I want to be a little bit superstitious. In my bag will be a compass, so I will never be lost. Also I will include an old dime (silver) so I will never be broke. My wife asked me today if I ever worry about being broke, and I said only if she decided to "kick my sorry ass out." Also in my kit I will put a cd. No, not XTC, but Carey by Joni Mitchell will get on there--"The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn't sleep"--It's Just the Motion by Richard and Linda Thompson will be on there--"Don't worry..." I would like some kind piece of cool, smooth stone to run my fingers over. That's four items. The fifth item is either a picture of a woman or a tarot card. I am sure I will probably pick the picture of a woman. This may surprise you. I considered that the picture should be Marlene Dietrich from Blue Angel, but that seems nothing like soothing. I think the picture of a woman might be either Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, or my granddaughter Anika, I already have her picture with me always--Anika I mean. She soothes me no end since she is such a sweet child and pretty. I know she is all right. That is soothing.

You know the one thing that won't fit in my self-soothing kit? A dog that will dance with me on weekend mornings. Just won't fit, but dogs are the ultimate in soothing. They dance, you can pet them, and they always know how to get home.

Ah well. And now, my dog will dance the quickstep.

DOGS AT THE GATE. Christmas Dog Ghost story. Repost.

Christmas is a time for ghost stories. It is an English tradition and some of the most famous English/Irish writers engaged in Christmas ghost tales--including of course Dickens, MR James, RL Stevenson. This is my dog ghost story, written (perhaps) in the old style--reposted. Hope you enjoy it and Happy Holidays.

I am not a man who is easily misled. Never have I believed in creatures of the night, nor specters, nor ghoulies, nor goblins. As a God-fearing man, even if I were a sort who believed in the preternatural, I trust in the Lord to protect me.

Now, I have walked the road leading from The Golden Friars public house to my own home a thousand times. The trip is little more than a mile. It leads past no place of notoriety. No sites of ancient scaffolding line the road. There is neither church yard nor graves. Whether I have had my fill of ale, or none; whether darkness or twilight, I had never so much as stumbled upon that road.

That is, until Bindon Babel returned.

Bindon was the eldest child of Silas Babel, a villain already old when I was born. Silas married his young second cousin, and she was more beast of burden than mate. Those who remembered him better than I, said he lost his wife from fever soon after the birth of the last child. Many felt Silas' mistreatment led to his poor wife's death. The elder Babel had two sons and a daughter. His daughter, who had taken her mother's place as workhorse, died of consumption at 15; and some six months after, the youngest son died when a tree he'd attempted to fell, fell upon him--or so Silas swore.

Silas Babel lived on a rocky plot of land with an unkempt orchard surrounding it. This land joined the road I spoke of earlier by way of a broken gate. The Babel home was little more than a hovel. Here Silas drank and rarely ventured outside. Villagers called him Godless. They said he'd never darkened the door of a church except when he enslaved his wife.

The son Bindon left to travel and find fortune for the sake of his family. When his sister and brother died, the surviving brother attended neither funeral. Some 15 years later, Silas Babel also died. If not for a black dog howling outside the door, Silas might not have been found for weeks. As it was, in death, the pale, wrinkled Silas looked little changed from his living self. Again, the son failed to return for services. In all the years of his absence, neither sister, brother, father, nor anyone from the village heard from or about Bindon Babel.

Then, some dozen years after the death of his father, the remaining Babel from the village, returned.

Rumors at the Golden Friars spread for weeks. Some said Bindon had been a mercenary on the continent, and amassed a small fortune in loot. Others swore he'd been aboard a coastal raider prowling the waters of West Africa. A third rumor put Bindon in America at the head of a gang of thieves and murderers. No one, frequenters of the public house, or the wags who passed tales at the back fence, figured Bindon had acquired his money by legal means. But make no mistake, it seemed as if this Babel at least had a surplus of money.

This money, ill-gotten or no, Bindon Babel hurriedly spent. First he married. Like his father, he found a girl much younger than himself. And, like his father, he mistreated the poor thing. Then, he gambled on cards and the races. He drank too much. He travelled with men with shady pasts. In a matter of months, he gambled, misplaced, or invested without return most all his funds. Soon, his wife, misused always, caught a chill and died. Bindon Babel disappeared into the same hovel as his father, broken and mad.

Then, I witnessed the odd events that began along the road from Golden Friars. First, every night for some weeks, I saw a small black dog I'd never seen before at the gate to Babel's land. The dog sat without seeming to notice me as I passed. Then, one twilight, Bindon, weaving, held onto the gate, staring out at the road. Perhaps I wanted talk for the public house, or perhaps I felt neighborly, even with a man such as this, so I greeted Babel.

"Good evening, sir," I said. "Where is your dog this evening?"

"I have no dog," he said, "and this evening has nothing to recommend it."

Taken aback, I bid the man farewell.

The very next night, a black dog stood at Babel's gate. It seemed odd, but the dog had grown considerably, as if it had shot up in stature in just a day. Also, while it again seemed to take little notice of me, something in its demeanor struck me as more aggressive.

A week later after this second sighting of the dog, Bindon again appeared at his gate. He stood some way out into the road, looking in one direction then the other. This time he addressed me.

"Have you seen anything strange around here?" he asked.

"There is a stray or perhaps two stray black dogs who sit at your gate in the evenings. This is all I can report."

Bindon Babel cursed then, and without another word, dashed through the gate.

The next evening, yet a larger black dog, very similar to the first two--so similar that they must have come from the same family--appeared at the gate. This animal's fur stood up along the top of his spine and neck. Though it took little notice of me, I put as much distance as the road allowed between it and me.

As I walked along the road toward my house, behind me I heard the panting of a dog. Afraid, I turned, but saw nothing. I looked about, to each side of the road but saw nothing. I retraced my steps, and found no dog. Naturally, I thought of the black dogs from Babel's, but I saw nothing. Yet, when I resumed my way home, again I heard the panting of a dog following me. Again I stopped. The panting stopped, but I saw nothing. I started home again, and the panting started again. I ran then, alarmed.

The very next day Bindon again stood by his gate, in obvious distress. He asked me if I had seen anything odd that night. I told him a family of strays must have adopted his land as home and that one had followed me last night. In truth, I thought these animals must be Babel's.

"I am worried I may be mauled along the road some evening," I said. "Someone should get the sheriff to remove these brutes."

I thought Babel might admit that this family of animals belonged to him, and that he'd curse me for my comment. Instead, he agreed with me.

"Yes. The sheriff is a good idea. These devils roam my property late at night. I can't sleep. They scratch at my door. They whine. Sometimes I hear them growling near the windows. Fetch the sheriff. They're devils." He then spit out another string of profanities.

The next evening, as I approached Babel's gate with trepidation, another even larger dog stood. It took no notice of me, but I dashed past it, wishing I had a club for protection. Again, I heard an invisible dog of some great size panting behind me all the way home. When I mentioned this to my wife, she suggested that the dog probably followed me behind a hedge and that in the dusk, I would not necessarily have seen him.

"But I never saw him hedge or not, yet I heard him still."

My wife shrugged, but seemed unconcerned.

The next evening, and it was early evening this time, on my way from the Golden Friars, Babel sat in the dirt in the road, in front of his gate, crying.

"I'm not a bad man," he said. "My poor mother. My poor wife. I should have come home. Brother, sister. I should have come home. There was enough for all. Did you know them?"

"I had seen your wife several times," I said.

"Poor girl. She deserved better. She never did no wrong. Not to a living soul. It's all my fault. I deserve it. I surely deserve it. They'll never let me rest." With that, he rose, and trudged through his gate.

The next day, an even larger black dog stood at the gate. This time the animal eyed me every step. It seemed ready to pounce on me, and seemed to be guarding the entrance to Babel's property. I sprinted past the gate. All the way home, I ran. Behind me, unseen, some great hound chased me, panting and growling.

It took nearly a week for me to recover from my fright. The next time I went to the Golden Friars, I asked a few of the lads to accompany me home. A couple of ales each at my expense gained me this gang. We all carried sticks. All the way to Babel's the younger men bragged what they would do to any dog that dared to molest me or them. Then, at Babel's gate, five black dogs of various size stood near the road.

At the sight of us, the dogs began to howl. They crowded through the gate then, still howling, and somehow, they disappeared. The bunch of us heard nothing from them. None of us had been to Babel's since he'd returned. As soon as we came within sight of the dilapidated house, we noticed the door standing open, and the windows broken through.

"Bindon!" we cried. "Babel. Bindon Babel!"

No answer came from the house. As a group, we decided to enter. Perhaps the dogs were inside the house.

Inside, we found no dogs. We did find Bindon Babel on the floor. It looked as if he'd been attacked by wolves. His clothes were shredded. His entire body was covered with blood and in some places one could see the bites. Upon a table sat a sheet of paper. "The dogs are walking on two legs," it read.