Signal 004: The Pen

The dog pen sat behind Merle’s carport like someone had built a broadcast tower for a dog’s bark.

The pen was maybe eight feet by ten, maybe. Chain-link. Dirt floor. Latch gate.

Close enough to the carport that if Merle pulled too far in, she would have driven into it.

Close enough to our house that Boomer did not have to work hard to be heard.

From inside that pen, he had a clean shot at us.

The den got most of his bark.

My daughter’s room got the rest.

Merle put him out a few times a day and Boomer announced himself until she came back.

Not barking here and there. Not warning. Not answering another dog.

A continuous report.

Squirrel. Bark. Wind. Bark. Porch. Bark. Shadow. Bark. Truck. Bark. Child. Bark. Nothing. Bark. Bark. Bark.

He barked at whatever moved and whatever refused to.

The pen did not contain his bark. It aimed it. The contour of the yard focused it. Our windows received it.

Inside our house, bark became part of the furniture. Bark sat with us. Bark ate with us. Bark followed us from room to room. Bark dominated every brief silence. Bark interrupted every thought.

Merle always came for him eventually.

That was a mercy.

That was the problem.

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