The first time Robbie Barrows stops on purpose at the gate of #14 Mayhew, the close, gray sky is pouring snow. The cold doesn't help his stomach, which started to knot up after a greasy cafeteria lunch and rolled itself tighter through the afternoon. Now that he's here, he can hardly stand up straight. The pull of his gut would have him curled up reading, watching TV on his bed. But he has to see the dog on his way home.
The iron fence presses right up to the sidewalk, keeping its distance from the low-roofed beige house squatting in the back end of the yard. The concrete walk from the porch to the gate is cratered with shoeprints, yet the pillowy drifts still conceal the tree stumps, rusty auto parts and grass. There are no paw prints anywhere.
That's puzzling. The dog is usually outside, even on cold days it is. There is yellow light in the windows of #14 Mayhew. People are moving inside. Maybe they have the dog in with them?
He hears first a low growl, then barking from the house. Yeah, they do. Oh well. Even though the snowfall limits his vision and encrusts his glasses, Robbie examines the house, trying to tell from the motion of shadows whether they're about to let the dog out or not.
He hears a man's voice: "No, NO — get!" And from somewhere behind the house, a door opening and shutting and a slapping noise.
Now the dog is really barking. A Rottweiler. Robbie calls it the rottie. A wet crunching as it leaps through the snow. Then the panther-like dog bursts around the house's back corner. It barks hoarsely and dives toward the gate.
Robbie steps back, almost to the curb. Saliva strings fly and freeze on the fence, breathy clouds toss snowflakes around, in the rottie's initial rage. Teeth snap. The snout wrinkles open over pink and black gums.
At first the dog lunges its snout between the bars. They're cold: it withdraws quickly. Now it dances on the pavement behind the gate, snarling and barking. Its eyes are furious.
The barking of the rottie at #14 sets the German shepherd at #12 going, which draws out the other Rottweiler at #10. Every house on Mayhew has a big dog to guard it; soon they are all out and making noise.
The snow settles on Robbie's shoulders and collects like sand on the dog's back. Now the rottie just sits at the frozen gate, baring its yellow teeth and pink-mottled gums and barking steadily. When it seems about to calm down, Robbie flicks the bars with his finger or blows air on the dog's nose. This infuriates it. The rottie jumps up again, and the convulsive barking shakes off the snow.
A passing car slows down and stops. Robbie turns around and at first he's scared that it's his dad. The long silver car is exactly the same kind. The man inside rolls down the window. He even looks like Robbie's dad: he has dry, tight skin and fair hair, and like Robbie's dad he combines a round head with a lanky body. Robbie automatically calls him sir.
The man leans over. "Boy, you watch out. That dog's dangerous."
"Yes sir. I know."
"Why don't you get on home with you."
"No sir; I want to watch the dog."
"You live around here? 'cause I can give you a ride home."
"No sir — I mean, yes. I live right near here."
"All right, then. Well you do me a favor and get home soon, all right?"
"All right."
The silver car glides off. The snowfall thickens, making it hard to see anything. A curl of deepest black huddles at the gate's foot, where the blunt-ended bars end one inch above the walk. The white snow is slowly filling this shadow in.
A yellow light suddenly opens at the end of the concrete walk. A man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt runs out. As if this presence reactivates it, the dog raises its head and growls. It staggers to its feet and barks. Boots chew the frost on the pavement. "Hey! Bay!" The man cuffs the dog with his wrist. It falls again. He twists one hand around its collar.
"Boy, what the hell are you doing? Get out of here!" The man is short, his eyes blue but furious like the dog's. His greasy, semi-curly hair hangs long in the back.
"I'm just watching the dog."
"Well if you don't watch him, dumbass, he won't bark at you."
"Yes he will. He barks at me everyday. No matter what I do. Every dog on this street barks at me."
The man seems about to cuff him, too. But there's a gate between them, and his hands are tied up with the dog. "How old are you?"
"Twelve."
"Then get home, boy! You trying to freeze my dog to death?"
Robbie looks down at the ends of his shoes. The man can't tell whether he shakes his head or not.
The man hauls the dog inside and Robbie Barrows walks home. It's not the last time the man has to tell him off like that.