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I am walking to my car.

An angry dog runs along the fence at his house. He is barking fiercely, angry, threatening.

I want to yell, "I am not in your yard! I am on the sidewalk! I am not threatening you! Stop!"

I stop. I bend down, look through the fence. He is barking. He is loud. Shoulders hunched, teeth bared, growling. He is frightening.

I keep looking.

I am face to face. Only the fence is between us. He has golden brown fur. He is small. One eye blue, one brown. He is barking.

I keep looking.

He looks at the house and back at me. He looks at me a little sideways. He does not hold my gaze.

I keep looking.

He turns and trots away. He is not barking. He goes behind the bushes, behind the house.

I keep looking.

He does not look back. He is gone. Silence.

I walk along the fence. I ask myself, "Why is he so angry?" The answer comes, "He didn't look angry. He looked scared."

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