Feral Dogs

I share my world with feral dogs. I wish that weren’t so, but Life is what it is.

I live in a place where, just outside my door, roam packs of dogs that claim no place called “home”. They do what they do simply to survive another day.

I was reminded of this when I heard a train whistle in the distance. There’s something ‘bout a whistle and a wail that gets the feral heart a thumpin’. Minutes later, I could hear the barks, the snarls, growls and howls of instinct and survival.

I heard it all through an open window and the safety of my garret.

And I remembered the day I ran for my life, literally, when I was trying to draw water from a monitor well at a landfill in just another godforsaken unincorporated area where hegemons screw the inhabitants. I was hauling a bailer from a well drilled deep when a pack of feral dogs came on the scene. I spied them. They saw me.

The chase was on.

I ran for my life. I did. I sprinted as fast as my two feet could propel me to my truck parked (all too) far away. The hounds were faster, but they started from farther away. I caroomed into the truck, threw myself in and slammed the door. The pack circled and howled, jowls drooling.

I admired them, one soul to another. It was a primal "thing". These were not anyone’s "pets". These were rugged, singular souls that fought for every scrap.

They were the survivors. They deserved their due.

Me? I was relieved that I dodged the fate of having my throat ripped open by a toy poodle gone bad.

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