High Water and Hell Hounds

With what's left of Tropical Storm Fay currently drowning central North Carolina, it was a lousy day to chase news in the Piedmont. But chase it we did, with every hour bringing a new Tornado Watch, a new flash flood warning and yet another bleating cell phone ring. Tough duty for a guy whose idea of proper rain gear is to simply stay inside. But for all the copperheads, gas leaks and scanner traffic we endured today, one non-weather peril stands out. It happened early in the day - just moments before spot news specialist Caron Myers snapped this shot of yours truly shooting off the deck of a Greensboro domicile...

We'd barely pulled into the flooded neighborhood when a most helpful gentlemen offered us an unfettered view of the ravaging runoff from the relative safety of his deck. Actually, he just said "C'mon!" and motioned us toward his front door. Being media weasels, we jumped at the chance to get closer to the action and set off sprinting across the man's soggy yard. (Why we were running I don't know, the six feet of swirling floodwater was quite literally, going nowhere) Even still, Caron and I bounded up the steps of the man's humble home like a hopped-up SWAT team. Caron was the first one in, her microphone and rain slicker disappearing into the darkened front room. With my tripod and camera in tow it took me a nanosecond longer to breach the man's threshhold, and as I squeezed through the doorway a small part of my brain absorbed the handpainted sign on the porch urging me to Beware of the Dog! Inside, heavy drapes covered every window and as my eyes struggled to adjust, I thought about that night vision scene from Silence of the Lambs. In the distance, some kind of power tool idled roughly; it wasn't until I'd picked my way past a sofa-shape that I realized what it was...

GGGRRRZZKKKGGRRZKGRXKGRXKGGRRRRRZKKKGGRR!!!!

Somewhere in the small home a great, miserable beast coiled on its haunches, lusting for the blood of the new intruders. I slowed my roll not one iota, but I did wonder for a second if the homeowner owned some sort of fire-breathing gargoyle. When nothing lept up for my jugular I pressed forward, rounding the corner to follow Caron through the kitchen. The sound inside that small room was deafening; the beast's tortured growling bounced off the old linoleum, making it sound like we were stepping inside his very stomach. Still, we pushed toward the filtered sunlight peeking through the back door, trying to ignore the fact we were about to be eaten. Caron was the first one through the door and as I squeezed past what I thought was an oven range to follow her, I came crotch to snout with the owner of that homicidal growl. Insode his crate, the hound from hell just about came out of his fur as the Grade-A Cameraman slid past his prison. Punching through to daylight, I shot Caron the appropriate eye-roll before throwing my camera on its sticks. and getting busy. Looking back, it was well worth it - but I do wonder who would have carried on this blog had the latch of that trembling crate failed.

At least I know how mail carriers feel....