It was after office hours on a typically hot and sunny summer day in the Triangle. My 45-minute commute from Cary through rural Chatham County to home in Orange County was the same old drive until I reached the stretch of road just before the nursery. Always watchful of activity along the shoulders, I had just a second to congratulate myself for missing the small dog dashing across my lane from the high grasses on the right, when I saw a brown flash from the corner of my eye, felt a bump, and heard "yip."
The rearview mirror showed a brown creature tumbling to rest in the middle of the road. A truck rounded the curve behind me. I pulled over, waited until the truck passed. Glad to see that it stayed to the right of the lines, I hopped out and started walking back.
Here's a picture of Skid in profile so you can see his sharp nose.
Two lines of cars heading in opposite directions rounded the curves, headed for the curl on the yellow lines, so I jumped the ditch and walked closer to the fence: stay in your own lane, guys. Both caravans reached and passed the dog at the same time, so drivers had yet another reason to keep to the right. As the cars disappeared around curves, I was close enough to see that he wasn't bloody road kill.
He was reeling, his sharp nose pointed to the sky and dark against the asphalt. As I stepped into the road, he seemed to focus on me. I walked over, squatted down, and leaned over him to look him in the eyes. His were Big Brown Puppy Eyes. Trusting. Intelligent. Without fear or guile.
"You won't bite me if I pick you up, will you?" I asked. >>
