Whenever the evening breeze was warm enough and damp enough to hug us, when it was strong enough to
thwart ardent mosquitos but not so
stiff it would blow my sundress over my head, Richard and I would head to the
nearby golf course with our dogs. We had no use for the place in the daylight,
when we could be blinded by the sun’s glare on the sea of polyester pants or
screamed at by an impatient golfer when our dog snagged his ball on the green
and ran into the water trap with it. But under cover of night, it became our
personal estate. We strolled the manicured lawns in the dark deciding where to
build the guests’ villa or plant a field of hydrangea.
During the 10 years of summer nights we wandered the course, Richard and I
shared many romantic moments: watching nutria churn through a mucky pond by the
light of a full moon; being surprised by the powerful, timed sprinklers at the
worst of times; and stumbling upon a black panther with glowing eyes that
emerged from the men’s restroom. (We were running across the fairway too fast,
clawing our way past one another, to realize it was actually a stray dog,
nearly lame, that the grounds keeper had befriended.) But my most memorable
night on the course occurred on one of those very rare occasions when I
wandered without Richard.
I was coming up a hill toward the street with my two dogs, Barney and Nuke,
pouncing around ahead of me. Suddenly, I hear lewd jeers and scary remarks
drifting towards me. “Hey, babe. How about a hole in one?” and “Why don’t you
kiss my putter?” and, well, you get the drift. Beside being outnumbered,
weaponless, and prone to hysterics, I was additionally disadvantaged by the
streetlight behind the lads, which lit me like a beacon and, consequently,
blinded me at the same time. I squinted towards the hill, barely making out the
tops of several heads silhouetted along the crest. I froze. The catcalls
increased. Should I turn around and run into the darkness? Should I march
un-victimlike towards the tormentors and practice the karate I learned watching
one episode of Kung-Fu? Should I scream (as if I even could) and risk
possibly triggering the attack?
Before I could decide between these ridiculous plans of action, I saw a blur
of white, six-feet off the ground, flying among the heads. It was my brave
savior, my hero, my dog, Barney. His growls and barks were soon drowned out by
sounds of men yelling and shouting as the white, furry phantom chased their
silhouettes up the hill and down the street. I ran up just in time to see them
jump in an old Chevy and squeal away. And there at my feet, like an offering,
lay a broken Styrofoam cooler full of beer which the culprits had dropped in
their haste. Ice-cold Budweiser. Longnecks. A gift to me and Barney from the
Goddess of Summer Nights.
This article appears in May 19 • 1995 and May 19 • 1995 (Cover).