Dogs in Autumn

I've been thinking about the fall of 1995 tonight. That was when I started spending regular, extended periods home alone for the first time. I remember the late-afternoon sun flooding my room as I sat at the foot of my bed, reading. I remember reveling in the silence, that first absence of background noise from my brother playing video games on the other side of the wall or my sister watching TV downstairs. I remember our dogs, Apache and Smokey, pricking their ears around five, knowing Dad would be home from work soon. Mostly right now I'm remembering that this was the first time I was conscious of the dogs of autumn.

That period from 5:00 to 5:30 when our family pets would perk up and wait for Dad always had an expectant air. I'd start a pot of coffee brewing for my father and laze around in my sunny room. I usually had a book in hand, but part of me was always listening for Dad's Firebird. It seemed like sounds intensified within that space, as did the quiet in between them. The animals would fidget. The house would settle. I'd flip another page in my book. It was on one such evening that I became aware of a sound somewhere in the distance.

I wasn't even fully conscious of it at first. It was a part of the afternoon, like snow whispering at the window on winter nights, birds singing on a spring morning, cicadas droning on a summer day. Barely audible, but there it was: a dog barking on another street, maybe in another neighborhood, echoing faintly back to me. It went on just long enough for me to notice, then stopped.

And in that moment, the year passed out of late summer and into early fall The change was almost palpable. Even the silence of the house around me was different.

This is how it has been for me every year since then, no matter where I've lived. The only difference is when. In Indiana, the rollover happened somewhere in October, sometimes even September. Here in North Carolina, where Indian summers can linger until Thanksgiving, the change usually occurs some time in November. Every year, I hear that dog, a dog, somewhere nearby, ringing in the autumn.

When it happens, I always think back to that first time. There was something about it that made perfect sense, something that told me it was supposed to be there, that maybe it had always been there and I'd never realized it. Sometimes, when the year seems to be unrolling and I get an unnaturally early longing for fall, I find myself listening for it, struggling to hear it it. But it bides its time. It's never there until it's supposed to be, and when it comes, there's almost an audible click in my head as the season turns over.

I've found myself listening for it lately. I finally heard it just now. It was a little closer than usual, a little later, so I had my doubts, but my heart skipped a beat somewhere in there and I knew. It's been autumn by the calendar for two months now and the weather's been cooler for weeks, but it's never real for me until I hear that dog. Let's do it again next year, my friend.