Signal 003: Boomer-Go-Round

It was a bright spring Sunday morning, close to ten, when I first walked over to meet my neighbor.

No fence yet.

Her backyard still had trees. A cathedral canopy. Old shade over old ground.

My yard was construction dirt.

Specht came with me.

He was four. A rescue. Small, bearded, careful. The kind of dog people guessed at: schnauzer, maybe; Havanese, maybe; some soft arrangement of whiskers, nerves, and trust.

Before I got him, someone had taught him the world was dangerous.

After I got him, he had started to disagree.

He did not charge.

He did not menace.

He followed because I went first.

She stood in the yard with a short, squat man I never learned how to place. Pale trousers pulled nearly to his nipples. Thin brown belt. Straw dress hat. A bulldog face under a Sunday brim.

He held Boomer’s leash.

Boomer was a small chocolate poodle.

Specht stepped toward him.

Everything went stupid.

She yelled something about my dog killing hers.

The little man moaned and began swinging Boomer by the leash.

Not near the ground.

Airborne.

Shoulder-high or higher.

Boomer flew outward by the neck, dainty poodle feet and tail flung farther into orbit.

A chocolate blur.

A poodle planet.

A merry-go-round of death.

Specht stopped.

Boomer went struggle-silent while circling overhead.

She kept yelling as if the danger were still on the ground.

I collected Specht, apologized, and walked back across the dirt.

That was my introduction to Merle Thomas.

Part of Closer. Sharper. Stranger. — a serialized Southern Gothic in fragments.