Neighborhood #1

At one end of Curd Street was a yard, encircled with chain link fencing and attached to a small church. In the fenced yard lived two German Shepherds, then the scourge of the dog world. These two worked in concert, like Cerebus, their two heads barking in every direction, their bodies close and quivering with anger.

If I remember correctly, I was fascinated by the dogs. I was all of ten years old, 5ft2in of legs, arms, knees and elbows. We didn't have much in those days. We lived in what could only be described, looking back, as slums. The drive through the neighborhood is almost unrecognizable, except for that feeling in the pit of your stomach that lets you know you have been here before. The fenced in church yard is still there, so are the apartments, red brick that stand to this day, although now they are overrun with vegetation.

I would walk to school, down my little street, turn left past the dogs, feed them a little piece of my breakfast, peanut butter toast, let them sniff my hands before they began to bark like mad, turn right at the end of the street, walk for about 4 blocks, turn left, scramble over hills that later became the base of the west side's Macon Housing Authority. Back then, the giant mounds of dirt that separated us from school were the biggest challenge of our day. The walk home would be the reverse, with some dry bits taken from lunch and furtively stuffed in pockets for the demon dogs I affectionately called King (yes, that was both of their names). They sniff my fingers, their noses wet. One King even ventured to lick my fingers before they both stepped back and started barking furiously. I let them know, by my voice, that they didn't scare me. When I talked about school, they stopped barking and listened. King would sometimes come closer. I talked as I walked around the fence and then headed home.

Our street was hilly and on the top of the hill was a two story blue house. The windows on the house were like a face and the dilapidated look of the house gave it a creepy feel. We always claimed that it was a witches' house. It was the kind of house you felt sure living next too would also brand you a witch and since I was already a vampire, well, I didn't need any more trouble. She hated animals and would complain about the infernal digging of our dog, Pearlie. I'm sure she hated the shepherds. You could hear King barking all the way to Jefferson Davis Road, the other end of the street, and I would stay awake wondering how I could charm the dogs.

We had our own dog who would dig holes into the hill. She would slink, fox like, into one of the many holes she created. She had puppies in one of them once and let me and my brother crawl through them to watch her feeding the puppies. Thank god for the knees and elbows.

It took several weeks before I tamed the dogs. Eventually, they were waiting for me in my walk. They stopped barking after a while and would perk up at the sound of my voice. The lady from the church was amazed. I'm sure she was afraid the dogs would turn on me, but they never did. For the four years the dogs and I lived in the neighborhood, we were friends.

I drove through the neighborhood the other day, my curiosity stronger than my need to hold on to memories that may not even be true. Everything was so different, though the chain link fence was still there. It was all so small. I couldn't imagine living there now. Of course, there are no dogs anymore. It's been more than 20 years. So much has changed, but the memories, faulty though they be, stay the same. I'm sure the dogs are playing to their heart's content out in the country somewhere.