Even
- 125 Even Before I get within sight of the clearing I can hear a voice say,“It’s a dog,” as if it might have been a wolf or a tiger, and then it says,“Look out! It’s going for your leg,” and then I appear. They stop talking, connecting me to Ms. Bear who had gone in first. I say, “She’s fine, not a bite in her.” They just sit there, three black boys in stone, looking at the white man who had come onto their scene. This is the clearing that Ricky and others occupy for most of the year, but they move out in summer to the shade of a few trees under the power lines, down by the water where they can catch the breeze from the south and swim their dogs. I passed them today coming in, and I could tell Ricky was with them from a distance because I could see his bike. If bicycles were tanks, his would be the General Pershing model, with its rusty fenders, rearview mirror, light, bell and a squeegee horn duct-taped to the handlebar, two enormous baskets in the rear, and a coffee can wired to the steering post where he carries whatever beverage he is working on at the time. I have seen him come over the levee hauling boxes of canned goods and pieces of rug, anything that might make the woods more comfortable , and leaving in the evening carrying odd bits of driftwood that he will sand, stain, varnish, inlay with cut glass, and turn into icons for St. Agnes Church, which is apparently his second base of operations .Today, out where they were gathered, I could see a lounge chair on the riverbank—where in the world did that come from?— and they had a radio tuned to the LSU game in Baton Rouge. g - 126 Even Leaving them for the woods, it feels as moist as the tropical bird exhibit at Audubon Zoo, the wraparound silence, and it is here that I give Ms. Bear her head and am content to follow. Only, the dog has come upon the boys in the clearing, and, just as they said, she has headed straight for a log. Maybe someone had eaten something and left the wrappers behind. Soon her head disappears and she is industriously burrowing underneath. It must be something good, I think, and right then the tallest of the three boys looks up and says to me,“Give me a dollar?” It shouldn’t have struck me the way it did, but it did. I should have just called Ms. Bear and moved on, but I didn’t. It was phrased as a question but it sounded like something else and, heat rising, I say,“What is it about me . . . I’m white so I give you a dollar? What makes it ok to ask me for a dollar?” At which point I catch myself and collect the dog and walk away, but not without saying“Jesus!” as if only He could save a world so lacking in whatever I feel it lacked. Within seconds the trees have swallowed me up and I feel my anger disappear as if I were waking from a dream. As if it had never happened. Bear soon disappears, too, and when I see her next she has tracked her way to a fishing spot on the bank which is usually strewn with old bait, Grade A habitat for dogs, or my dog anyway. The sad fact is that this dog will eat just about anything, and if it has passed through another animal first all the better. If Lisa or I are walking her through the neighborhood we keep her on a close leash. But she has developed countermeasures. She will scent the next dog dropping long before we see it and trot right on past in a dignified manner, winning herself some slack in the line, only to spring back suddenly and snatch a bite before we can yank her away. I tell Lisa that it is all part of the game, but she has more practical concerns, like the dog then licking us or throwing up undigestibles . I have to admit both do happen. Out in the batture, however, it is a different story because the whole point of going there is to explore. This is a windfall for the dog because she not only gets to eat forbidden things but gets...
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