Ghost Dog
A strange black dog is stalking my neighborhood. One of the talkative little cats in our neighborhood, Socks, went missing. A lady down the street had her cat killed in the night. Somehow I slept through it, but my wife thinks she heard her shouting in the dark, “I’ll f**k you up! You f**ker!” or something of the sort.
We have lots of street cats here, which is a new thing for me. I mean, each is really somebody else’s cat, but it’s nice seeing them and having them around. When we thought that the murdered cat was the fluffy bully we call Fat Cat (’cause we don’t even know his or her real name), we were more sad than I expected. I went through that phase where you say, “It’s not fair. This is that cat’s home street, but this dog can just come through and kill whoever it wants?”
One night, out near the Inman Park MARTA station, I saw a handful of stray dogs sniffing their way through the parking lot. Most of them scattered in my headlights, except one. He just stood there, eyes shining, neck turned taut, looking down his raised nose at the floating white eyes of the headlights. I think if I’d driven toward him he would’ve wrestled my car to the ground. But instead he walked down the steps into the neighborhood nearby, looking casually around him at his domain. It might be our city but it’s his night.
It’s been a couple of nights since we heard about the attack, though. No one’s screamed in the night. The cracks in the sidewalk aren’t running red with blood.
And last night, Socks was sitting in our driveway.



