A Night with the Dogs

Connor Smith

Imagine, if you will, what you would do if you were locked outside of a farmhouse, in the near freezing cold, overnight. Years ago, in my adolescence, I found myself in this exact situation, desperate for warmth and shelter. This is the story of how I lived to tell the tale of such a treacherous night, one that rapidly descended from a pleasant walk to a fearful dawn in which I found myself nearly helpless in the hands of nature.

I was staying the night at the farmhouse of a good friend, another teenager named Ryan. With only four of us total, there weren’t enough people to call it a party—more of a simple gathering of sorts. But, as the night ran its course, and the bottles ran dry, everyone began to succumb to the call of sleep, all except for me. I acknowledged my current situation, one I had found myself in many times before: if I could not find a way to exhaust myself soon, then I would likely be awake just long enough to fall asleep around sunrise, leading me to sleep the entire day away. I decided the best way to avoid a total inversion of my sleep schedule and enjoy myself in the process would be to take a walk around the vast property. If only I could have known what was to come from such an innocent idea.

I stepped out from the frost-clad sliding glass door, feeling the stale, icy snow crunch underfoot, and I took in my first full view of the fields around me that morning. The near-full moon shone brightly, gleaming off the last of the snow clinging to the cold earth. Here, in the Tidewater region of Virginia, anything more than a dusting was a rare treat. So seldom did it accumulate at all, that, even with only the dregs of the snow lingering in the fields that encircled me, the land appeared almost alien in nature. With a sharp inhale from the sting of the cold shocking my nose, I realized even the atmosphere was foreign to me, compared to the consistently humid air that blankets the peninsulas I call home.

I set out, one foot moving after the other sluggishly through the snow. Eventually, having made my way to the nearest edge of the field, I began my patrol of the perimeter. With the birds and varmints bedded away, seeking refuge from the bitter cold, all sounds were deafened aside from the occasional muffled passing of a car down the distant roads. Come time that I had traversed about three quarters of the path, I knew that this trek simply would not be enough, and so I decided to extend my walk. The last leg of the walk ran parallel to the back road that bordered one side of the field, so I split off and started on down the side of the road.

I suspect I had walked two miles up the road by the time the sun had begun to peak over the horizon, and, as dawn broke, the realization came to me that I had failed in my efforts of sufficiently tiring myself; I didn’t see a wink of sleep that night. However, the walk was pleasant and a fine way to start most any morning. I kept on until I approached a church. I thought it a good landmark that I could later drive by, so as to appreciate how far I truly walked that morning. By this time, I was growing exhausted like I had desired, but I knew I still had to get back. I began to trudge back cautiously, as the frequency with which cars came and went increased from never to seldom.

Finally, I was back. Not realizing my danger, I walked from the edge of the field to the back door from which I had originally departed. I fixed my eyes on the handle as I approached, then reached out and pulled, and . . . nothing. Again— nothing. I pulled in futility, hoping maybe the frost had just fashioned a firm seal upon the door, but no such luck. Just on the other side of the door, all three of my friends lay peacefully asleep; surely, I could wake them somehow. I tried knocking, then banging as hard as I felt the door could withstand. They weren’t budging and, ripe with concern about breaking the glass, I tried calling each of their cell phones, one after another. Then again. Then back to knocking. I checked the other doors, and no dice. The windows would be a hopeless effort, as they had all been firmly painted shut years ago.

Running out of options, I thought back to when the previous night was still young. We had all shared in drinks and merriment in Ryan’s small garage. Big enough for maybe a car or two fourwheelers at most, it was more like a shed, but sounder and more permanent. Unfortunately, its structural integrity meant nothing to me in that moment, as I sought something more desirable: the succor of warmth. Within that shed lay my saving grace: a wood stove, likely older than me and all three of my friends combined. It rarely saw use, but it had been fired up the night before so I could show my buds how to cook eggs and sausage on such an archaic piece of equipment. I reached for the doorknob, and my whole body was hit with a wave of relief as the knob twisted with ease and the door cracked open, before I was greeted by the barking of the three caged German Shepherds that Ryan’s family quartered in the shed. I had met them all before, so two of them relaxed within minutes. The youngest dog, Rex, on the other hand, was much more leery of new people. I supposed he wasn’t as accustomed to me as he’d have liked for being in such close quarters and barked incessantly for at least a half hour until he tired himself out.

While I had to deal with his noise, I examined the room I found myself in. It wasn’t room temperature; no, far from. But it felt leagues warmer than the unforgiving outdoor air. I headed for the stove and felt a resounding sense of respite as I discovered that the embers in the stove were still at work, burning and churning out heat. I did all I was able and huddled upright next to the warm, iron construct, feeling the dull heat seep out of it and into me. At last, I could rest. I drifted in and out of sleep for hours, with Rex barking at me whenever I stirred enough to shift my weight.

Eventually, I woke to find my friends and Ryan’s parents standing over me, curious and concerned. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and began to regale them with the hardships that I had endured overnight. Of course, they asked why I didn’t wake them or knock, and even then, I found myself not mad at them or even the situation. It was just funny to me, both then and now. It was a silly situation with potentially dire consequences, from which nothing major arose.

This desolate, unfortunate situation truly opened my eyes. Many who experience such events would say that it taught them how fragile one’s life really is, and how you should take each day with care. While I acknowledge these truths, I saw it as not only offering an opportunity but a necessity of growth. I should know how to survive in the elements, how to make shelter, forage, and make fire for warmth; for what was as little as eight hours this time could be a week in another situation. It is my responsibility as an individual to endure, persevere, and to take my safety and survival into my own hands.

Wally Spiked

Hamilton Darden II