Michael Malone - Weebly

stepped back into the sunshine. He even took his car
top down to spin off for a quick ride around Lake
Pissinowno. Just as he reached the Falls Bridge on Goff
Street, he saw a half-circle of large, scrawny dogs
baying a woman up against the wood rail of the bridge.
The woman was Mrs. Haig. Braking quickly, Smalter
called to her, then yelled at the dogs. Unable to make
himself heard over the pounding rush of the nearby
waterfall, he slammed his hand down on his horn.
The pack turned toward the blare, finally broke,
and fell back to the vacant lot near the Optical
Instruments factory. Mr. Smalter crawled out of his
roadster and chased after the dogs, crying, "Scram!"
Most of them were big—a gray, brown, and black
mottled progeny of half-breeds; mongrels in whom only
a few signs of past heritage were scattered: a
shepherd's coat, a weimaraner's milky eye.
The pharmacist reached for a rock, but following
some undecipherable message from somewhere, the
pack, tails twitching, loped away. Mrs. Haig's face was
gray. "A mean-looking bunch," he said.
"Underfed. Aren't they almost wild?"