There is a dog howling somewhere. He is unhappy. They have left him alone and he is calling out to anyone, here I am, the house is empty, they have abandoned me, they will never return. Of course, that’s nonsense, they will return, but the dog doesn’t know that. Tell the dog, I’m going out to dinner. I will be gone for a while, l’ll be back soon, but the dog knows only that you are leaving. And when the dog hears you’re back, with the unlocking of the front door, and you come in, the dog jumps with joy, expressing the feeling that what it thought was a permanent abandonment is not that, and the person who feeds the dog will be there at supper time.
The dog’s howl is not the howl of the coyotes on the ridge. Their howl is an eerie high-pitched cry, followed by the yipping of the pack, a song that tells us that there is some sort of celebration going on in the darkness above us. They’re not shut up in the kitchen, waiting for someone. They’ve been prowling the ridge, looking for a rat or a rabbit or perhaps someone’s cat that was carelessly left out to roam in their territory. A sheet of paper will be tacked to the telephone pole, Lost Cat, last seen on Toyon Road. And there’s a picture of the cat, answers to the name of Sweetums, and there’s a phone number. Sometimes there’s an offer of a reward.
Ask the Coyotes, I think. The lonely dog continues to howl. Someone, perhaps the crazy man who lives on the corner, will call the police and they will drive up Oak Road, stop the car, turn off the engine, and listen. When they find the howling dog, there’s nothing they can do. A note will be left on the gate.
It is a full-throated howl. The dog is putting everything into it, not leaving out a note, the howl rising to a crescendo, falling off, a short silence and then a repeat. I know the feeling. Nobody is listening. Or, yes, somebody is listening, me and a host others, but we do not respond to the howl. We are dispassionate listeners, and I know that feeling: of reaching out and finding someone there who does not extend a hand, hears the howl, but will not insert the key and unlock the door.
Russell Hill 