Skippy, my black and white border collie was tethered in the backyard. He howled at the full moon from beside his doghouse. His mournful voice sent shivers of apprehension racing down my spine.Howling like he was in mourning was not normal for him. The direful sound was one of several unusual acts from my dog that my family noticed during the course of the week. He shied away from other dogs. He was highly alert to anything that moved like the shadows my basketball made when I bounced it in the driveway.
Even the slightest crackle of dry leaves under my shoes would send his ears up as if he was listening to something I could not hear. Things he'd previously ignore as if they were beneath his notice. He cowed when the town's deep throated shift whistles called railroad employees to work. For us, watches were unnecessary, our body clocks were automatically set to that shill whistle. My parents departed for work and I went to school.
Small towns are much the same everywhere. Family pets are left free to run the streets. Skippy seldom left our yard except to visit with Winky, Gary Neal's Scottish terrier in the middle of the street. He preferred to drape himself across our font stoop waiting to greet me when I came home from school. One day he wasn't there, but I wasn't worried. I thought he and Winky has gone to forage along the creek.
Dogs are creatures of habit. The five o'clock smells of supper cooking brought even those who'd wandered afar home in anticipation of a bowl of leftovers waiting for them on the back porch.
When the magic hour of five o'clock arrived, Skippy was AWOL. Still I didn't push any panic alarms, but as the daylight turned to the dark of night, my parent's knew from the lines of worry creasing my face. I was scared for Skippy. He hadn't come home. He'd never stayed out this late. Where was he?
Gary Neal ran across the street. Winky was missing too. Whistles pierced the evening shadows. Not a single dog responded. Search parties were formed to no avail, our dogs were no where to be found.
Neighbors told my father that earlier in the afternoon they'd watched two stray dogs, slinking with purposeful stealth, come down the street, followed by other dogs. They were immediately joined by Skippy and Winky.
One of the strays led the pack while Skippy, the instinctive herder, kept the group together as they crossed Ford Street. They disappeared from sight behind a hedge row that lined a field of weeds, wild flowers, and honeysuckle.
Mrs. Jones, who lives on the far edge of the field, told Gary's dad she'd watched them roaming the east bank of Lynn Camp Creek. They didn't stay but a few moments beside the stream devoid of most life with the exception of a few water snakes, snapping turtles, and two emancipated goldfish someone had dumped.
Two miserable days dragged by as adults and friends became despondent with no word of a sighting of our missing pets. At school my history teacher gripped by shoulder in silent sharing when he caught me staring out the window hoping to see Skippy. He'd heard the announcement Gary's dad put on the radio to be on the lookout for Winky and Skippy.
On the third, my parents efforts to bolster my hopes changed to reminisces of Skippy's place in our lives. As the bewitching hour of five o'clock approached, gathering storm clouds began to replace the day's bright sunlight. In the distance a faint rumble of thunder rolled across the steel grey western sky.
Looking out my bedroom window, the thunder became a drum roll of sound and fury as the storm broke. Through the driving rain I spotted four dogs part the hedgerow and race up Hart Street with Skippy in the lead. Two frightened canines rushed past the house, while Winky peeled from the pack to crawl underneath the Neal's
porch."
Skippy leapt onto the front stoop of our house where he frantically pawed the screen door.
I flung open the door to my rain soaked collie who was covered with cockleburs, mud, and leaves. He greeted me with yelps of joy.
I hugged my long lost friend then steered into a storage closet where my almost unrecognizable pet wedged himself against its most secluded corner.
What happened to our dogs who completely disappeared for three days? Where did they go? What did they eat? Would their barks reveal a secret hideaway? My questions go begging answers. Their unknown destination forever remains a mystery.
But, for on shining moment all was right in my world. Skippy has come home!
Noel Taylor (Corbin, KY) is a guest writer this week. His story of a beloved pet has the right amount of weirdness to usher in the witching season.
Skippy's portrait was created by Barbara Appleby.
Nash Black
