The Dog Who Disliked Traffic

The old house sat on a corner lot in what had once been a prestigious section on the city. It was like a grande dame fallen on hard times - looks and wealth gone, but still an impressive sight. The landscaping was kept up, the shutters newly painted, white wicker furniture was casually scattered along the wraparound veranda. The entire front yard was enclosed by high, iron fencing which turned nearly sinister after dark.

The dogs, three in all, were behind the fence. A smallish, tricolored, shorthaired almost-beagle, a good sized black lab mix, and a shaggy, medium sized mutt of no recognizable origin. The almost-beagle kept mostly to the veranda,
content to sleep in the sunspots and raise its head to briefly howl at passersby. The lab strolled the fenceline with
dignity and cautious reserve but at a friendly voice would immediately fall to the ground and roll over in submission.
The mutt, however, was driven. He raced frantically back and forth from one side of the fence to the other, snarling and barking at the traffic, the pedestrians, the trees, the leaves and anything else in motion. Hackles raised and teeth bared with the approach of every vehicle - he seemed to have a special grudge against traffic waiting at the red light.

The old lady came around the corner hauling her two wheeled shopping cart behind her. She wore a bright red scarf and old fashioned rubber boots and carried a paper grocery bag in her free hand. The mutt charged the fence at full speed and jammed his snout through the bars, his barking close to hysterical and his entire body poised for attack.
She hardly spared him a glance as she navigated the broken slabs of sidewalk trying to balance her cart and her bag of groceries and not trip, all at the same time. The mutt followed her the length of the fence, frenzied jaws snapping
through the bars, frustrated at her indifference and lack of reaction.

She reached the end of the fence and calmly set her bag of groceries down on the sidewalk, propped her cart up against a tree, and turned to face him. From the pocket of her overcoat she produced a Totes-like umbrella and carefully took off it's wrapper. The mutt, now on his hind legs, froth dripping from his mouth and eyes glazed over,
charged again and again jammed his snout through the iron bars. Canines gleaming and choke chain flying around his neck, he pushed his head through the bars. She raised her umbrella and said clearly and loudly, Language! and administered a sharp rap to his nose. Startled, he withdrew his head and sat down in surprise, looking bewildered and suddenly unsure of himself. Meanwhile, she replaced the wrapper of her umbrella and dropped it back in her pocket. She adjusted her scarf and then raised one finger and wagged it at him slowly, picked up her groceries and cart, and resumed her travels without so much as a backward glance.

Sooner or later, every mutt meets his match.