You can’t see the Bronsons’ place from the road since it’s tucked back behind the trees. But you know you’re getting close when you hear the barking. The Bronsons, they keep dogs.
It wasn’t until this past summer that I actually saw one. A white shepherd perched on the big rock that marks the bend in the road. You know the one I’m talking about, it always has flowers laid beside it.
That dog wasn’t too bad. It just sat there, and when I passed it lifted its head to follow me with its amber eyes as I took the turn.
But then I drove by again the other day after the snow fell, and that’s when I saw the black one. It came bolting out from behind the pines as I made my way up the hill. Poor thing, I thought when I saw how skinny it was. That was before it chased my car for a good half mile.
Now you know why I think someone should say something. It’s one thing to let your dogs run loose, but the roads are slick this time of year; an animal like that can cause an accident.
The problem is, I can’t seem to find anyone who’s seen the Bronsons lately. I’d go up there myself to check on them, but I can’t stop thinking about how hungry that dog looked, and the way its eyes seemed to glow when I looked back at it in my rearview mirror.
R. Y. Brockway writes short stories with the intent to entertain and thrill her readers. A lover of both the mundane and the macabre, she explores aspects of both in her writing, if not necessarily at the same time. She lives with her husband in Virginia.
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