Number 9, March 1999 IN THIS ISSUE... Dawn over Boggy Creek Road by Patricia Akhimie Ladies of the Road by John Lindenbaum Highway 9, 26 West by Richard Johnston Dogs by Tristan Snell

DOGS (cont.) back       Next came the man in the yellow tanktop. The heavy gravity of the pouring water seemed to weigh more heavily on his gaunt, tanned frame.       "Could you tell our viewers what you saw?"       "Well, I heard the yelling but I didn't get there quite soon enough. By the time I could see, he was on the ground it seemed and the dogs, they were on top of him. It looked like some other people were coming to help him so I kept my distance."       "Did you know Mr. Warren?"       "Uh, yes. We'd see each other sometimes when we jogged around the neighborhood. Both of us always went out on Sunday afternoons. Seemed like a decent guy, seemed in good shape and all."             Bouncing down the hill he had to adjust the headphones of his walkman, placing them back over his ears, a tape of generic classical music he'd been given for a birthday, the usual gifts acknowledging his love of running, shoes, shorts, the magazines he pretended to read. Absorbed in the sweeping melancholy of the music, Mozart he thought it probably was, rejoicing in the kicks of gusty breeze and the rhythm of his breaths and steps, he was not expecting anything when the sharp canine teeth dug into his right hamstring, bare, lean, but muscular, peppered with dark gray hairs. The other dog lunged for his right side and withdrew a frayed patch of white t-shirt, coming free with a quick rip of cotton. He let out a quick, sharp scream and reflexively swung at the dog on his right with the walkman, which was strapped to his right hand, disconnecting the cord. With the Mozart gone from his ears he could hear the moan from the animal as he found the top of its skull with the blow. The frightened noise of pain seemed, he thought, out of place as he sprinted away, evading the dog at his left.             "Now we speak to the owner of the home behind us here. Sir, can you tell us what happened?"       The man was taller, with balding gray hair neatly combed over. He slumped and slouched into the microphone, dressed cleanly in a short-sleeve golf shirt and khaki pants.       "You see, I had pulled my car there into the driveway when I noticed the man, trying to fight off the dogs, but he wasn't calling for help…so I…I didn't know what to do. I thought that they were probably his and they were out for a walk and they were just getting a bit rough. Yes, I figured…that was all it was. They were just jumping up and tugging on him a little. I called over to him and since…he didn't answer, I…so I figured everything was ok. Then they were on him and I figured they were just licking him, playing, so I just left well enough alone. None of my business."       He shot a self-satisfied grin into the camera as he sidled out of view to stand next to his wife, pleased that he had been able to help and excited that the house would be on TV. They were planning on selling in the spring.             Tingles of pain crept up from his thigh like shivers of cold as he ran, adrenaline feeding his heart. His bulging eyes swung back at the dogs every three seconds or so, and he could hear their paws scratching the loose gravel of the side of the road as they ran. The scratches seemed to come faster and faster than his plodding running shoes. Each quick look back brought their snouts several feet closer-it was the snouts he noticed, out in front of their bodies. The muscles rolled easily under the thin brown and black hair, rivers flowing into and bouncing off of each other and ultimately forward in gallops of front and back legs, the heads rigidly nodding, spines rising and falling in tight, quick waves. They ran side by side, brothers from the same litter, purchased and trained for the express purpose of chasing and hunting intruders, of protecting the homestead from the violent world beyond.       The man's pace was slowing as his hamstring swelled and dark blood ran in streams down the back of his calf, absorbed by tube socks above his ankles. He could hear the dogs' steps outpace his heartbeats and groaned with his whole breath as one bit his right buttock through red nylon shorts and the other leaped, landing its jaw in his arm above the elbow. Their forward momentum nearly cut him down. Continued...