Dog Children

I'm going to tell you about a town—a town you should never go to. For your protection, I won't tell you the name or location. But I'll tell you this: if you ever think you might be in this town, get the hell out of there and don't look back.

It happened some years ago. I was on my way to visit an uncle I'd never met—meandering around, trying to read a rather confusing map—when I ran out of gas. Stupid, I know, but I can never make heads or tails of those damned things. The dangers of hitchhiking were disconcerting though there wasn't much choice, so I didn't bother fussing about it and started up the road.

The midday sun was oppressive. My forehead ached from all the squinting and my clothes were soaking up a gallon of sweat. My tired arm hung lower and lower, as did my hope of hitching a ride. But in the distance came into view a red pickup truck. "Please stop. Please stop," I repeated, sticking my thumb out as far as it would go. As the truck grew closer, I waved my arms around until it eventually slowed down and stopped in the road.

"That your car back there?" asked the friendly old coot from behind the wheel.

"Yes, sir. Ran out of gas."

"Hop in. We'll get you some at the next stop."

Cappy—what a nice guy he was. He sure liked to talk about his family, but they were entertaining stories. His son was fighting overseas and I could tell his kindness was inspired by the admiration he felt for my generation. Heroes, he called us. You wouldn't catch me on the front lines though—always been one to shy away from danger. I didn't tell Cappy that—didn't want to disappoint him.

After some time, I started to wonder when this town would show up and I expressed my concern that it might be too far away. It didn't seem to bother Cappy. I guess he had nothing better to do—still never found out where he was headed. The road was getting bumpy, then turned into two brown strips with grass down the middle. I could finally see a town peeking over the wild fields.

Pitiful yet quaint, it was textbook small town America: faded blue houses with white trim, a few brick and mortar businesses with hand-painted signs, town square, big red barn, white chapel on a hill. Cars were parked here and there, some without tires; though I didn't see any people around. It wasn't surprising for such a remote hamlet, but what did surprise me was that, despite the barn, I didn't see any animals.

There was no official fueling station but we found an old garage with a gas pump out front. Cappy kept apologizing for lending his gas can to a neighbor while we searched through the cluttered garage. A rancid odor would come and go, making me sicker each time. "I'd better go find someone," I said, "and tell them what we're doing so they don't think we're robbing the place." Really, I just wanted to get away from that smell.

"Look for a gas can in case I don't find one."

"Roger that."

The town seemed deserted but I could hear voices echoing from somewhere, so I followed them. Two children appeared from the tall grass, chasing each other down the road. In the distance was an apple orchard with kids running to and fro, tossing apples at each other—some of them on all fours. As I approached, laughter and playful screams came from all sides. It seemed like normal child behavior, but then I noticed they were all wearing dog masks.

There were a few children sitting at a pint-sized picnic table playing with something that looked like cake—smooshing it in their hands and smearing it on their clothes. I assumed from the cake, the masks, and the occasional party favors that there was a birthday party going on. Trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible, I strolled on over and attempted to question them.

"I'm sure someone baked that cake to be eaten, not played with," I said, trying to sound like an authoritative parent. The children stopped what they were doing and looked up at me. I got the shivers—the way they all turned their heads at the exact same moment, all wearing those dog masks. And these weren't cute cartoon dog masks. The attempt at realism lent them a disturbing quality.