Horror In A High Country

"There's an old rule about dogs running wild."

"Sure, Harry, but that was before telephones. You ever see Tony running on your place, don't shoot him, just give me a call, O.K.?"

Darvey is sharp. Hollywood competitor, smiles a lot. Humor the old gaffer along, but show your teeth just enough.

With me it is too much. He likes his poodle, but I liked my sheep, too.

"Have a good one, Harry," he says as I climb into the truck. He hustles to his house holding his pencil like a scalpel, hurrying back to heal a cancerous script.

I sniff the sheep smell wiped off the face of the big, lumbering poodle. True-blue Tony, probably got an A plus in obedience school

Another hundred yards, another driveway. This one lettered in hammered black iron: PATTIMAR. Margaret is dominant, Patti the pale invisible presence in the corner.

Margaret comes out into the yard to quiet her two Afghans—long-limbed, silken-haired dogs, too exotic for brush and ticks and foxtails: richly colored, supple, showy animals. They ought to win blue ribbons. Patti stays inside the concrete block walls, but she is listening at a tall, narrow window of the sunless house.

Margaret is a blunt barrel, built about like Darvey.

When I try to tell her my errand, she steps up close with a challenging hostility. I don't feel hostile. I'm trying to save her dogs, but by now I can guess how it will go. I hate it already.