For the next two hours I engaged in irrelevant activity, directed by the brain for tension relief rather than goal attainment. Behaviorists cal it displacement.

Folowing a laundry session involving panties in the bathroom sink, I sorted and organized the contents of my briefcase, deleted temporary files from my laptop, balanced my checkbook, and rearranged Ruby's glass animal colection. I then phoned my daughter, sister, and estranged husband.

Pete did not answer, and I assumed he was stil in Indiana. Katy did not answer, and I made no assumptions. Harry kept me on the phone for forty minutes. She was quitting her job, having trouble with her teeth, and dating a man named Alvin from Denton. Or was it Denton from Alvin?

I was testing the ring options on my phone when a strange baying arose from the yard, like a hound in a Bela Lugosi movie. Peering through the screen, I saw Boyd seated in the middle of his run, head thrown back, a wail rising from his throat.

'Boyd.'

He stopped howling and looked around. Far down the mountain I heard a siren.

'I'm up here.'

The dog stood and cocked his head, then the purple tongue slid out.

'Look up, boy.'

Reverse cock.

'Up!' I clapped my hands.

The chow spun, ran to the end of the pen, sat, and resumed his love song to the ambulance.

The first thing one notices on meeting Boyd is his disproportionately large head. It was becoming clear that the dog's cranial capacity was in no way related to the size of his intelect.

Grabbing jacket and leash, I headed out.

The temperature was stil warm, but the sky was slowly filing with dark-centered clouds. Wind flapped my jacket and gusted leaves and pine needles across the gravel road.

This time we did the uphil lap first, Boyd charging ahead, huffing and coughing as the colar tightened across his larynx. He raced from tree to tree, sniffing and squirting, while I gazed into the valey below, each of us enjoying the mountain in our own way.

We'd gone perhaps a half mile when Boyd froze and his head shot up. The fur went stiff along his spine, his mouth half opened, and a growl rose from the back of his throat, a sound quite different from the siren display.

'What is it, boy?'

Ignoring my question, the dog lunged, ripping the leash from my grip, and charged into the woods.

'Boyd!'

I stamped my foot and rubbed my palm.

'Damn!'

I could hear him through the trees, barking like he was on scrap yard sentry duty.

'Boyd, come back here!'

The barking continued.

Cursing at least one creature that creepeth, I left the road and folowed the noise. I found him ten yards in, dashing back and forth, yapping at the base of a white oak.

'Boyd!'

He continued running, barking, and snapping at the oak.

'BOYD!'