No Leash Law, and: Coal Miner's Special

No Leash Law

I approach a white house.Despite being astigmatic, I seea fence-electric,two barking dogs inside:the large one, mostly Lab,exits a gate. I needto pass this houseto arrive at the fieldwhere the sun sets. Our desirefor beauty overcomes caution.I never make eye contactwith beasts. Still, whenI'm halfway past the house,the big dog growls at my side,baring teeth whiter than bone.I put my writing hand in my pocket.

The next day I learnthere is no leash lawin Sweet Briar. I pick up dogmace called Haltand a large club from many providedin dumpsters and head upOld Stage Roadthe opposite way, wherethe only vicious dogis said to be a brown and whitebulldog at the fourth house-butafter a series of biting incidents,sources tell me that dogis no mo. I'm hopefulthis is a euphemism for dead. For two days,my luck holds out. I fallinto lassitude. On the third day,I see a barking brownand white fur muscleapproaching. No one is around.I have no choice but to proceed. Idon't have my Haltor my club. I curse myselffor not having my cell phone. Then I hear

a male voice, loud but with sucha Southern drawl, I questionthe content. A big manis holding out his hand, his palm facing melike a crossing guard.Don't move, he says.I think, oh he must be kidding.I yell, Does that dog bite?But he repeats the hand signal,only more emphatically.Don't move, he says, and he's runningafter the dog which is gettingcloser to me but misses him.He picks up a rockand throws it.The muscle is hit and yelping.It runs toward the white house.I hear a man say a woman

needs to go past. Now, the manis standing in front of me,his hand out, this time for a handshake.I take his hand. It's sweaty.I'm Dave, he says.Glad to meet you, I say.Does that dog bite? Yes, he do, he says.Thinking I can't be hearing right,I speak loudly and slowly.I even use sign language.Does that dog bite? I askand make my right handinto a mouth of teethand grab my left arm with it.Yes, he do, he says again.Now I'm really upset.The next time you see this dog, he says.Stop. Don't move. You understand?O.K. Dave, I say, and stumbleback onto the blacktop.

Coal Miner's Special

Not home for a year and now I'mputting on my old T-shirt:Clate Husted "Coal Miner's Special."I borrow my brother's pick-up,head for the races at Belchertown.Listening to CB talk of womenas beavers, I can't resistthe shiny black horn: "This is yourcity beaver calling." The airwaysgo hogwild. Truckers beg my location.

My father has taken my room over,replaced my bed with a gunrack.I have to sleep in the living room with the color TV. I click it on, hopingto see Clate Husted drive up-silver jacket, red car.

Loudspeakers; country music.Hundreds of cars roarfrom pits. Warm-ups, novice heats,the main event: Clate Husted in red 72.The flag drops, the noise deafens,wreck after wreck sends wheels flyingover the fence-red 72 in an unbeatable lead.