Several years ago, our four children and I were diligently slogging away at our fancy school, set up right there at the kitchen table. Typical, mundane day. It started with our four dogs, raising a ruckus like there was no tomorrow. As I looked up through our bay window, I saw a massive German-shepherd-like dog, running like something possessed from the back of our property. In a moment or two, two more dogs and about five policemen came following behind. Mind you, we didn't live in a neighborhood. We lived on a private chunk of land, way off the road. People didn't just "run through." If someone came through our yard, we were likely to pull out the shotgun. I stepped out the door and one of the cops yelled at me to get our dogs inside and to lock all our doors. They were chasing a murder suspect who was on the lam.
Wasn't expecting that tidbit of information.
We ran around, locking doors and posting guns at each portal. Called Papa Bear at work and insisted he come home, but the devil he worked for wouldn't let him leave. He had a hard time believing that a murderer was loose in our neighborhood. I guess it was a pretty unlikely story. Within minutes, we heard the thump of helicopter blades, dozens of police sirens and maybe a few firetrucks. The excitement seemed to be heading west, away from our house. But you never know. We started getting calls from family and friends, saying that our property was on TV. We turned it on, and sure enough, there was a news man talking out in our front field, helicopters buzzing overhead. I looked and saw a couple of police cars in our driveway. I ventured outside and got the scoop. They had chased the guy for a few miles. He apparently ran right beside our house, across the street and kept going.
We made brownies for the cops camped on the driveway. They were there all day. And all night. When my husband pulled on our road near midnight, they waved him over to question who he was. He questioned who they were, too. We stayed up very late, watching the news and waiting to hear. The cops hovered all night. Next morning, they still had not captured him. We figured he was long gone, so Papa went on to work and we started back up at our schooling. Again, we hunkered up at the kitchen table when I noticed our dogs in the backyard. Three of them were in submissive repose in a circle, about 10 feet away from the alpha dog, Bonnie. Bonnie was very busy gnawing away at a large object. Occasionally, she snarled and barked at one of the other dogs as they got too close. She was too far away for us to tell what she was chewing on, but it looked to be about the size of a human head. My boys wanted to go check it out, but I insisted we get out the binoculars first. We still couldn't see any details, so Mama Chicken allowed her boys to run out in front of her. We are hollering, squirming and horrified. John dashes ahead, stops, wheels around, guffawing. Thank God, it's not human. It was the head of a dead deer.
Sure, dogs who live in the woods have been known to drag dead deer parts out, a time or two. The occasional squirrel or rabbit cadaver made its way to our back deck. Even weird, mutant gerbils appeared a few times. But a deer head, the very morning after it has been reported that a murderer ran through our yard? What are the odds?
The universe is a strange, strange place.
America is waiting for this book, you little brat, get it done
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