The Black Dog of the Hanging Hills will tip its head to howl, yet not a woof nor a whimper spills from him, not one faint growl. He savors human company and charms you with sad eyes; but when those orbs turn fiery, they herald your demise. He leaves no prints in sand or snow, appears when the sun is bright, or at dusk on a crest in the full moon’s glow — ethereal as night. It’s said that long ago a pup that wandered with its master en route to rugged heights trudged up a path, straight to disaster. On the loftiest ledge its keeper lurched and plunged from ridge to gorge. The mongrel, lost and restless, searched the woods for broken George, but never found the man who’d reared and steered him through those wilds. I’d hiked there once, and a dog appeared; it tagged along some miles, beguiling me as it larked and leapt, then bounded off like a buck. The next time it appeared, it crept in shadow. Terror-struck, I lost my footing, nearly tumbled into a gulch; discerned a phantom’s gaze. My courage crumbled. Unruffled, I returned one early April dawn to climb those treacherous traprock trails where copperheads and deer kill time with toads and cottontails. Hawks wheeled and whistled, corvids clamored, thrushes thrilled to fill the ears of Earth, woodpeckers hammered — when all went suddenly still. The cursed cur, his eyes cerise, materialized anew. I free-fell, easy as the breeze. My backbone cracked in two. My eyes flew open: there I saw the milky fangs of death, watched venom dribbling from its maw, although I felt no breath. Way up above us hung the cliff I fell from. Then I stirred and rose, refreshed; I wondered if a time warp had occurred. My steps, as light as a lunar cricket’s, drew me toward the summit far from the mass of tangled thickets. Flying! Soaring from it! Now night and day and all year round I hike here with a breed as black as ravens, hushed — a hound I never have to feed.