The first dog, a big Irish setter of all things, was spotted after Memorial Day. I knew it was that weekend because I’d gone for a hike and I can distinctly recall feeling happy walking with Sophie, and how nice the weather was that day, and how I thought about feeling better, almost normal again.
A week later, a report came in to the station. Roy Abbott said he’d spotted a dog flying above his farm. Mary Sue, my dispatcher, laughed and shook her head.
“You’re not going to believe this one, Sheriff.”
We all laughed. She was right. I didn’t believe it.
“Isn’t old Roy suffering from early onset dementia anyway?” I said.
The next callers were people without dementia--Gabe Jacobs, Patti Ramsfield, even Dr. Sanders. I believed it was some practical joke. I called over to the next county, asked their sheriff if he heard of any such joke.
“Flying what? Walt, you back on the booze?” he said.
Some speculated it was a virus spreading between dogs somehow. Or maybe it was in the water, we wondered, but then why weren’t humans flying? Some teachers from the high school tested samples of reservoir, river, lake, well water. There wasn’t enough time to confirm anything.
Soon dogs were floating in the skies on a regular basis, levitating, paddling, cruising above the ground.
Foolishly, I believed my Sophie was immune. I thought maybe she was just too old. When I let her outside, she studied the airborne dogs, her faded muzzle turned upward. She whimpered a lot in those early days. At night she struggled off my bed where she’d consistently slept since Nance died, scratched lightly at the door. I’d rise to soothe her, rubbing her face and speaking softly until she returned to her place.
At first people were amused.
People brought their dogs out to the big fields, releasing them from leashes and crates, picnicking beneath skies dotted with dogs.
Early days, the dogs, being dogs, returned to their owners with a whistle or a “C’mon, boy,” landing obediently, allowing themselves to be restrained, releashed.
As time passed though, more people were getting hit by dog feces, or by the dogs themselves as they took off and landed at will. A plane went down in Campbell Forest after a dog strike.
Eventually, the dogs went disobedient, feral on us. Dogs stopped returning to owners. Dogs quit coming home. Dogs got downright nasty, started killing birds, eating cats, biting children on the neck. People no longer felt safe going outside.
I was naïve, I’ll admit it. I thought that if something really bad happened we’d all join together to fight it.
At the emergency town hall meeting everyone argued. They all, even the Vet, Sheryl Timber, agreed we should ultimately euthanize our pets, not saying exactly how. Nobody cared too much about that. Most differed on was who to blame. Some blamed God. Some blamed the wind farm installed over in the next county. Some said it was the feds. Harold Watkins said it wasn’t real at all and we were all imaging it. Many blamed me, though Mary Sue came to my defense.
“What in God’s name was Walt supposed to do about this?” she shouted.
I sure appreciated that loyalty. Loyalty’s always been my guiding star. I wear a belt buckle with a star on it to remind me of that.
Nobody was more loyal than my Sophie. Through all of this, it was like she was trying to say to me, “I don’t want to do it, Walt, I don’t.” I kept her inside, allowing her out for morning and night relief, not too far into the yard. The ghostly yelping of other dogs echoing across the valley made her ears turn up and her front feet to lift.
The feces became too much, too many kids were getting hurt, and too many dogs were causing accidents of every kind. Mayor Lloyd took the plunge, ordered every dog shot and killed. The Harrigan brothers were happy to perform the service, loading their guns and aiming at the sky. Dog bodies thudded all over town.
Inside the protective walls of our house, Sophie broke her resolve, drifting up like a balloon, hovering at the ceiling, paddling her front feet, landing only to eat, to rest beside me.
And that’s where I am today, my dog hovering above me in my kitchen, feces dropping to the floor like stinking hail. I know it’s only a matter of time before my she turns on me and I won’t be safe here, not anymore.
Of course, Sophie can’t talk to me, but I look in her amber eyes and know she’d rather die than betray me. I’d rather die than shoot her.
Luckily, Sheryl Timber told me what I have to do, gave me the medicines.
Sophie and I will float right on out of this mess, together, loyal til the end.
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