COLUMN: Things That Go Bark in the Night

By Tobin Barnes

It’s nighttime. Most people are asleep.

A dog barks in the distance.

Has Timmy fallen down a well, and it’s Lassie seeking help?

Good old Lassie! Hold on, Timmy. Lassie will save you.

But no, it can’t be Lassie. All the Lassies are dead by now, and besides, though Timmy had a inexplicable tendency to wander, I don’t think he ever made it to South Dakota.
Then maybe it’s Rin Tin Tin. Rusty’s been captured by the Apaches, and someone’s got to get him outta there.

But no, it can’t be old Rinty. The horse cavalry disbanded decades ago, and Rusty’s probably drawing retirement about now.

So what dog is that, barking away and keeping me awake?

It can’t be our dog. She’s over at the neighbors, sleeping beside their pellet stove. She likes it there a lot better than our garage. Decided to upgrade her amenities, oh, maybe a year ago. Heads over there every night now. Buttons down tight, immovable. No reason to bark.

We haven’t got that many other neighbors and they’re all a distance off. And no nearby neighbors whatsoever from the barking dog’s direction.

Except way down in the bottom of the gulch, perhaps a quarter mile away and five hundred feet down. Is that where it’s coming from?

Gotta be.

Whatever, the dog continues to bark away insistently. Probably enjoying the acoustics. Gets a charge hearing its voice reverberating up the walls of the gulch on this otherwise still, quiet evening. Living big in doghood terms.

Hate to cramp his style, but he’s keeping me awake.

And I’m thinking, What’s more important? Me getting some sleep or this dog expressing his individuality?

It’s a no-brainer. Thing is, what do I do about it?

First option: Suffer.

But that’s truly disconcerting. Hey, I suffer while a dog enjoys itself? In the words of P.G. Wodehouse: That’d be “pretty dashed offensive to (my) proud spirit, as you may well imagine.”

Second option: Stuff some kleenex in my ears.

Heck, it almost works. I can hear the dog only about half as much as before. But the result is the same. His sharp piercing yelps penetrate the wadding to the sufficient extent to keep me listening for the next round.

Third option: Kill the dog.

The madness of sleeplessness has overtaken me. This, I think, will not be the last night I hear the dog, the dog, the dog (thank you, Mr. Poe). On every succeeding clear, cold, windless night, I will hear the dog again. Therefore, death be to the dog!

So how do I do it...poisoned hamburger, infrared scope on a 30-30, RPG...what?

But could I do it? In this state of mind, anything’s possible. I’m starting to understand the pysche of gunslinger John Wesley Hardin. Killed a man for snoring.

Would I do it? Kill the dog, that is.

Who am I kidding, I’d have trouble....

Wait a second!

No barking. Is he done, for cryin’ out loud?

Wait...wait for it. It seems to be.... Yes, thank goodness, I think that’s it.

I’m not going to have to resort to my fourth and only real option: sacking out on the couch in another room, away from the tortuous yips of the devil dog.

After all, that would have been pretty dashed offensive.