You could tell where the common good and public safety had run into personal greed by the irregular distribution of street lights. And those that were on would periodically blink off in what I could only assume was some sort of cost-savings move.
I couldn't see shit.
There was not enough light to see and not enough darkness for my eyes to adjust.
The dog saw everything.
The first thing I noticed was when his ears swept forward and he slowed down.
No longer was he focused on the smorgasbord of smells coming up from the muddy beds that would soon be the front lawns, he had heard something.
Was it that German?
I couldn't see shit.
We had come across the German several times on our walks. He was a big dog--one of the few that could look mine in the eye without craning his neck. They would stare at one another from across the street.
The German never approached, never barked, but was clearly at full alert. At first, I thought he was just well-trained, but then I noticed the small black box riding on his collar.
He'd been invisibly fenced.
I never trusted those systems. There are lots who swear by them, but I have met some stubborn dogs who, like prisoners, are more than willing to risk the pain of the shock collar in order to reach their goal.
And, however unlikely, anytime we were in that part of the walk, I had to wonder if this might be the day that the German decided to "go for it."
The golf course at the end of the street was also popular with the deer. It was as though they recognized that their traditional habitats and feeding areas were now forever beyond their reach and so they took great satisfaction in feeding, rutting and shitting all over the course's carefully manicured lawns.
Except during hunting season, the deer generally stayed well away from the street, so it was unlikely that that's what the dog was smelling.
Instinctively, I buried my hand into my packet. Under the poop sacks and the flashlight was the Derringer. I knew it would be useless at any distance, but if anyone wanted to get friendly, I could be just as social.
Maybe a minute had passed since the dog had stopped, but it seemed like a lot longer.
As it happened, we were standing under a streetlight. The amber color of its sodium vapor source contrasted and complimented the cobalt blue night that encircled our setting like a collectible lampshade.
There was also a low-hanging cloud that lined the inside of that shade like the polyester fiber fill that kids use to make cobwebs at Halloween.
Spring was coming.
The ground was getting warmer and, on nights like this, when it was cold and damp, those low-hanging clouds were pretty common.
The lights of the city on the other side of the golf course would bounce off the clouds and create a soft glow that made it possible to pick out some of the larger shapes in the darkness.
That's all I could see from my present position: shapes. At that, I could only make out the biggest and the closest ones.
The old instincts were still there. I needed to get out of the light and find some cover.
Casual: it was important to remain casual.
I gave the leash a quick snap and started walking.
I never trained the dog for this kind of thing: a quick look around my house and you would know that I believe in letting things and people find their own level. I got to the end of the leash and it went taut: like the dog was correcting me.
He hadn't moved.
I looked at him, but his eyes were still locked on his target.
I called his name.
He looked at me for a fraction of a fraction of a second, before going back on target.
I was ready to give the lead a good tug and make good use of the hundred pound difference in our sizes, when I noticed he was having trouble reacquiring his target.
His muzzle flashed from side to side and all around. He sniffed deeply trying to get a trace.
Nothing.
Shit.
This was the wrong neighborhood for this sort of thing: all off-the-street parking and broad, treeless lawns. No cover anywhere.
I tried to rationalize and strategize in equal parts. It was probably just a skunk, or a dead possum that had drawn out the hunter in my old friend. I was so long out of the game that no one would be coming for me. Would they? I wasn't management, I didn't call the plays. If anything, I was glorified tech support.
There was a snap of dry wood from somewhere across the street.
That wasn't right.
Timing would be very important.
We were maybe at two minutes by this point. Felt longer; felt like I had passed a dozen birthdays.
And then there was the deep thump of bad music that heralded the arrival of some teenager's car.
I started to look in the direction of the sound, toward the headlights that were casting shadows on the lethargic clouds, but then I had a better idea.
I dropped the leash and ran in the opposite direction.
Since I was moving, I was now more interesting than whatever it was across the street, the dog followed. For him it was a great game. I used to think that way about the work I did.
It wouldn't matter how good the other was--if indeed there was someone across the street--they would first have to evaluate the threat posed by these unexpected potential witnesses before acting against me. That would take time.
I hoped it would be enough time.
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