It was ten years ago. My wife and I had just bought our first house; it was in a newly-onstructed community. In fact, we were on the
last street (row of houses) and directly across the street was a few acres of wooded land. It was thick with underbrush and mostly
older trees. Over the years, more houses have been built there and all the woods are gone now, but then it was the wild kingdom
come home.
Anyway, it was late one night in August and the wind outside was kicking up quite a bit. The sky was overcast with dark, heavy clouds,
and looking out our front kitchen window we could see occasional lightning a mile or so away in the sky above the woods. Thunder
cracked overhead.
At 11 p.m. or so, we heard scratching on, and the shaking of, the wooden front gate/door into our back yard (it was just outside the
kitchen, to the left of the house). That meant only one thing, the same thing it meant every time it thundered, that our six-year-old
german shepard dog, Butchy, was freaking out again and hopping the fence. Every time the clouds rolled in, the thunder clapping, he
rolled out. He'd run to the woods across the street, charging about ten feet straight in and then ten feet to the right, where an
old picnic table sat covered with pine needles and other tree leaves, partially hidden by tall weeds and bushes.
I ran out the front door, my wife following as far as the edge of the porch, and started across the street. I saw Butchy waiting at
the edge of the woods, directly in front of me, just watching me approach. With another clap of thunder, Butchy was off into the
thicket and the darkness of trees.
As I started in, my wife yelled (barely audible over the wind), 'Be careful! Its dark.' I couldn't see Butchy, but I heard his
thrashing about already in the direction of that picnic table. I yelled his name. His only reply was a louder thrashing about and a
low growling. I thought that a bit strange, but with the scared state he was in he'd probably growl at any varmint he saw. After
going in about three feet, and heading diagonally toward the picnic table, I heard Butchy growl rather loudly (especially over
that wind), and then bark... cut off with a yelp the likes of which I hadn't heard since the time he was a puppy and I accidently
stepped on his tail.
Not knowing what to make of it, I thought I had better run back to the house and grab a flashlight. If Butchy had somehow hurt
himself and was lying in that thick underbrush I'd have a heck of a time finding him in the dark. As I approached the outer edge
of the woods, I saw my wife now by the mailbox at the end of the driveway. She looked in my direction and began screaming,
'Get the f--- outta there! Now, honey! Run!' I didn't know what to make of that, but it so startled me I took off back across the
street.
As I ran up to her, she threw her arms around me and started crying. 'Oh, god. I was so afraid you wouldn't come back out!' Puzzled,
I asked her what she meant, and started to explain how I was coming back for a flashlight to find Butchy easier. 'Look,' she
interrupted me, 'just look!' as she pointed towards the woods about three or four feet to the right of where I had emerged.
Looking back at the woods, I saw a startling sight. A pair of eyes. Red. Glowing. Unblinking. About seven feet from the ground.
Smoldering and peering out from the wooded darkness just a few feet from where I had been. From where I'd be right now if I hadn't
come back out. From where I had last heard Butchy yelp.
I got my gun from the house. When we both came back out, the eyes were gone. Working up my courage, I announced I had to go get
Butchy. My wife threw herself on me, ordering me not to go. Telling me if I did I'd have to drag her with me because she wasn't
letting go.
As we argued for a few minutes, it began to pour. She convinced me Butchy was either hiding under the table or still running,
either way he wouldn't come back voluntarily until the storm passed. Past occurences told me this, we had never been able to coax,
cajole or drag him back until the weather cleared. Usually, as dawn broke the next day we'd hear him stratching at the front door.
So, we both went inside. Scared and wet.
The next morning, Butchy didn't return. A search of the picnic table area and surrounding woods turned up nothing. It would seem
Butchy, and whatever happened to him that night, was washed away with the rain.
