There’s no moon out tonight. The darkness is as thick as southern humidity, though it’s winter, and not humid.
I flip the light switch but neither the backyard nor porch lights are working. Regardless, the dogs must be let out.
I open the back door, let the dogs out. The small one no more than 10 pounds and of indeterminate parentage; the other just shy of 40 pounds—a slender 40—but a proud mutt. Neither are large beasts and the darkness appears to be causing them to tense up—they’re both quite rigid and, with the lights not working, don’t want to leave the concrete of the porch.
They must, however, go into the yard to “do their business.” But I will not let these animals be harmed.
I open a 5-inch folding knife and place its handle in the mouth of the larger dog. He clamps down firmly. I move him just to where the grass begins. He stands stiff, at the ready, facing north.
I place the smaller dog, unarmed, immediately in front of the larger dog, facing east, facing the dense bushes at the back of our property. They’re both now in the grass and both on guard.
There have been reports of rabid skunks in the neighborhood and I saw a vicious, sick-looking raccoon about a week ago. Reported it to the cops—ain’t nobody got time for that. There’s all kinds of movement in our property-line bushes at night, so best be careful. Best keep these dogs armed. But without the goddamned lights working, I have to go out there with them. These domestic dogs…what do they know for fighting diseased suburban monsters.
I position the dogs—big dog facing north, little dog immediately in front of him, facing east, facing the bushes as lookout. Then I reposition them slightly because their placement wasn’t just quite right.
The dogs feel as though they’re stuffed or made out of solid foam. Tension. There’s a lot that’s not right about this night. And in those minor movements to reposition them, the big dog’s mouthblade eviscerates the smaller dog.
What. The. Fuck.
I try repositioning them repeatedly, each time resulting in another stab to the little dog. Neither canine makes a noise as I move them about, as the blade inadvertently goes in and out. All of this madness taking place where our mighty Brugmansia sprouts up late each winter and flourishes to deliver an endless supply of intoxicatingly scented flowers until the year’s first freeze. There were no Brugmansia shoots emerging this night.
The plan to reposition the dogs is not working. In fact, the little dog appears to be finished. He’s on the ground, bloodied throughout his core, clearly dead. But he's flat as though he’s been run over by a vehicle and dropped in my yard in this darkness during the last 3 seconds and I was somehow unaware. This night, I tell you...
The large dog still makes no sound. Even during its mortal wounding, the little dog never made a sound. Large dog still rigid, still holding the knife, the murderous mouthblade with which I furnished him. And he’s behind me, unmoved, as I hear rustling coming from the bushes. I take a few steps closer to the sound of scuffling leaves.
A large beast emerges from the dark of night, from the bushes through which no light will penetrate, in my yard with no goddamned functioning porch lights! It’s a wolf-dog hybrid with a black-furred face, perfect for a dramatic emergence from the ether of this night. I see the eyes. They’re kind eyes. But this is a large, unknown beast of at least 70 pounds moving directly toward me. Quickly. At most 20 feet of grass field separates us, flat except for a small lump where a previous pet was buried or where years-ago melons drained the soil and left a slight indentation.
In those seconds, I think two things, in this precise order: 1) Oh shit, that frozen-up dog has the knife, followed immediately by 2) This beast is too large for me to simply kick. I can’t just kick him in the head—a plan that had run through my mind recently when considering how to respond should I encounter a rabid skunk or raccoon. I was also barefoot, so this would have been a terrible idea.
The beast moving quickly at me did not appear to be rabid and did have kind eyes this night. Yet, our larger dog has the only weapon—and he’s not making a peep or even pretending to be a guardian—and I can’t kick this monster running at me. I do the only thing a brave, adult man in such a situation could: let out a confused “DERP!”
Yes, as the beast is less than a second away from me, I loudly say, “DERP!”
A microsecond later, in the darkness to my right appears a three-by-three grid, white background with black text of words that I could have selected instead of “derp.” Real words. Actual words.
Then I ask, dumbfounded, “Did I just say something?”
“Yes,” my wife informs me. “You just yelled, ‘derp.’”
I slowly unravel the tale to her, as ridiculous and embarrassing as it seems, but not before exiting to relieve my bladder, which was about to burst. I woke myself up from a dream by screaming “DERP!” in response to seeing a wolf-dog hybrid coming at me. I did not wake myself up from a dream by screaming “DERP!” in response to seeing a wolf-dog hybrid coming at me and subsequently piss myself. I guess I’m doing all right.