The suffering dog is still crying two hours later, now under brilliant sunshine.  I made my way through the wet leaves to see if he was OK.  “Hey, Hercules, are you OK?” I called and he stopped crying for a moment, turned briefly to regard me with sad, wolfish eyes.  A second later he resumed his post at the gate, mewling with all his heart.

I called the neighbor, Joe, a native Chinese speaker with a working knowledge of English. I introduced myself and told him his dog was in the backyard crying for the last two hours.

“My daughter?” he asked with great concern.

“No, no. Hercules,” I said.

“Ah, he is crying cause I put him in the cage.  I have people coming to the yard.  He doesn’t like to be in the cage, but I had to put him in because I don’t want trouble, you know?  So he’s crying to get out of the cage,” Joe said, then imitated the exact cry of his watchdog.  Then he thanked me several times and told me he’d call his wife, tell her to let the dog out now.

Sekhnet was relieved when I called to give her the news.  The dog is still filling the humid afternoon with his soulful calls.

The Chinese couple who live in the house behind the garden kept two watchdogs in an outdoor run.  The dogs were there in every kind of weather.  One of the dogs died about a year ago.  The remaining one is fairly quiet, not much barking comes from there anymore.  You occasionally see a feral cat perched on the top of the dog’s enclosure, he doesn’t seem to mind.

The couple came from China, literally escaped from China.  They’ve made a good life in America, working hard in a busy contracting business, they own two adjacent houses they have fixed up beautifully.   The dog run is behind the house they rent out.  They exchanged bemused smiles about Sekhnet’s and my attachment to the feral cats who used to live in the garden.  In hard times in China cat is good for a decent stew, not to walk around your house, seemed to be their attitude.

The sky turned grey just now and rain began pelting down.  I sat at the computer for my daily tapping, an hour or so where I feel in control in an out of control world.  As the cold rain began the dog in his coverless run began to cry.  He is crying as I write, piteous howling cries.  He is not barking, he is crying, inconsolably.  Moaning helplessly, the sobs really are terrible to hear.  He’s baying, imploring someone to let him in out of the rain.  He’s an old dog, soaked to the skin, and he’s cried continuously as I write these words.

“Don’t tell me about it,” said Sekhnet, on the verge of tears when I called to tell her about it.  “They must not be home,” she said.

A nice thought, that they aren’t home.  They’re such nice people, I’d hate to think they could ignore the cries of their dog, even if he is just a guard and something without a soul to them.

Meantime, anyone hearing the sorrowful song this dog is singing would know instantly about the soul inside, suffering like any sentient being and appealing helplessly for help.  I wish I had some way to help the poor guy, though he’d probably be too upset, and proud, not to bark at me and show his teeth if I approached through the wet leaves with a pancho for him.  Not that he’d wear a pancho anyway.