Walking the Dog

Her fears were groundless. She saw the same people every morning; the Chinese lady who walked with tiny steps and perfect posture, the jogger who wore a light strapped to her head, and the woman who walked four dogs ranging in size from a dachshund to a German Shepherd. Neighborhood life before sunrise had a specific, predictable, and safe rhythm.

“As long as you’ve got Scout, nobody’s gonna mess with you,” her husband reassured. Scout, a golden retriever mix, was a gentle giant at 105 pounds, and fiercely protective of her. Still, she worried whenever a car drove by slow or lingered at a stop sign. Most people on the road at 4:30 am drove with purpose. They were not out for a joyride.

A street light was out on part of their walk path. Every day, she convinced herself they’d be safe if she made it past the burnt out light. As they approached the darkness this morning, a car turned down her street with bright lights, blinding her view of the sidewalk. She took her cue from Scout. If he was OK, she was OK. The car pulled into the gutter, slowed to a roll, and stopped.

She stopped too, deciding her next move. Scout gave no indication of danger, but intuition told her to stay away from this car. “C’mon Scout, let’s head home.”

Clicks of car door latches cut through early morning silence. She quickened her pace refusing to look back. A loud pop filled the air, followed by a heavy tug on Scout’s leash, then no movement. A pillowcase was pulled over her head before she could see him lying on the ground.

“Like I told you. Always shoot the dog first,” were the last words she heard.