The White Dog Days of Summer

I got to keep moving

Blues falling down like hail 

And the day keeps on remindin' me 

There's a hellhound on my trail 

("Hellhound on My Trail," by Robert Johnson)

At least one dog lives at most of the houses and trailers along the route between our humble abode in the back woods and the state highway that takes you into town. As we motor along, sometimes a beagle or retriever or pit bull will run out and give chase for a couple of yards before turning back to continue the important work of laying in the yard and staring at the mailbox. Very few bark or actually come close to the moving vehicle. But there is one, a white greyhound, who finds me particularly disturbing. Everyday he lays in wait at the bottom of a hill, crouched in the gulley across from his trailer. Then, when I am right on him, he springs out in full bark mode. Bearing his fangs between barks and growls, he comes right up to the door and runs beside the vehicle down to the three way. Devil dog followed this script all summer without fail, until this weekend.

Saturday mornings at our house normally do not require or involve a trip to town, but this past Saturday I wanted to be at the tractor mechanic's shop when it opened. Coming over the hill in the truck, I prepared mentally and braced for the imminent attack. But it did not come. Hesitantly, the truck came to a rolling stop at the three way and still no attack. "Oh, no," I thought. "Someone must have come flying over that hill and hit him." The truck pulled away and I felt a little sad. Then, about a half mile up, there he was, trudging toward me on the right edge of the road, tail between his legs. As we met, he slowed down and looked up with a worn out face as if to say, "Not today my friend." My four-legged nemesis then drooped his head and plodded on toward his house. "Aha!" I reconsidered. "He may not have been hit by a barreling automobile, but I bet he was hit by a barrel of whiskey and is nursing one humdinger of a hangover. The old boy must have stayed out all Friday night and is trying to slink home before they wake up and find him gone!"

Sunday morning, as I headed into town for Mass, the hellhound was back on my trail, ornery as ever. I guess he stayed home Saturday night.