1973
I sensed Ruth was awake, and I listened for a moment. “No dogs are barking.”
She propped herself on one elbow. “Not a sound.”
We lay, listening to the 2 AM silence.
“Yip.” It was a weak, high-pitched bark—a little rat dog.
“Woof!”
That was probably across the Chimayo highway.
“Arf.”
“Woof, Woof!” This contribution was longer, more drawn out. I imagined him sucking air, readying himself for his next offering.
“Yip, yip.” That sounded like Johnny’s dog. She should be embarrassed by her weak effort.
“Arf, Woof—woof, yip.”
A distant hound’s “Wooowooowooo” set off the first three in chorus, and we laughed.
“GaWump!” rang, further away to the north.
“Yip, yip,” was followed by, “Yap, Yap, Yap,” anxious to get in the last bark.
“WHOOF-whoof-whoof-whoof,” came from the south. That mutt had some pipes!
“AAARRRUUUFF!” a tremendous effort echoed, and for a moment, all the others paused, amazed by the power of this mighty display.
I chuckled, holding Ruth’s hand.
After a collective inhale, the answer came, with several latecomers joining. I tried to count, but with no conductor, the sounds wove and melded together.
“Thirteen?”
She squeezed my hand. “You know, every dog in the world has started barking all from that first yip.”
Johnny’s dog stuck in a quick triplet, heard only because she was closer.
“Yup, all the way to up to Taos and down to Santa Fe.”
431 total views, 1 views today
