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no. 1: I can hear the mountain screaming at night.

I can hear the mountain screaming at night.

I moved to this house about a week ago - a nice little cottage on the border of North and South Carolina, overlooking the piedmont at the edge of the Blue Ridge mountain range. During the day, everything seems normal. I type my funny little words into this funny little computer; I get paid. The sun shines outside every morning, and birds sing in harmony with the last of the cicadas. I wake up and I make my coffee, and I sit on my balcony while the final vestiges of night fade to a close.

Everything remains calm and quiet through the day, barring the times I host a dance party of one while waiting for my old microwave to kick into gear. Even my dog seems more subdued. Not lethargic, per se, but he seems to have less energy - less gusto for life. Puck doesn't really bark anymore. Not at squirrels, not at other dogs. He doesn't even bark in excitement when I come home from the store, which is, for lack of a better term, really weird.

Some of my new neighbors complimented me on how well trained he is. Oh, isn't it nice to have a quiet dog? He doesn't even jump on you? I could never get my dog to behave as well as yours!

That's the thing. Neither could I. He used to be the most. He used to require all of my attention, all of the time, lest he wither and waste away, a ghost of the dog he could've been. My words, not his. I mean, maybe? He doesn't talk, but he's so full of attitude that it's not hard to understand how he thinks.

Puck doesn't jump up to greet me anymore. He doesn't paw at my hands, trying to guide them to his chest for his favorite kind of scritches. He doesn't shove his annoyingly cold nose in my ear for attention while I'm trying to watch a movie anymore, and he takes his time to eat now instead of scarfing his meals down like he's in a contest. He's always been gentle, and very conscious of my space so that he doesn't accidentally hurt me. However - if I did do something to annoy him enough, he would be petty and walk his forty-pound ass all over my lap to show his distaste for my actions. That shit never hurt, so to speak, but it never felt great, either. Now? It's as if he doesn't care at all.

He's not annoying. He's not even petty anymore. It's like his personality is just... gone.

I miss him.

I know what you're thinking. John, why did you just waste three hundred words talking about your dog? Where's the meat of this story? What the hell happened?

First of all, I did not waste time talking about my dog. I may just be a dog kind of guy, but my philosophy dictates that no time spent talking about dogs is time wasted. And for those of you who don't have dogs, I need you to know something. Dog behavior doesn't just change like that. Every dog has a personality, and that personality isn't just erased because of a change in scenery. I maxed out my credit card to take him to two different veterinary clinics to see if they could find anything wrong with him, but both doctors looked me in the eye and stated that he is a picture of good health. Other than his weird behavioral changes, there's not a damn thing wrong with my little mutt.

I should've seen that red flag for what it was.

I should've noticed as Puck became more jumpy, more nervous on his walks. I should've noticed that he did his business as fast as possible before tugging on his leash to go home. That dog used to love meandering on his walks, giving everything in his nose range a good long sniff before moving on to the next interesting thing.

I first heard the mountain's noise last night, at around three in the morning. I woke up in a cold sweat, the familiar sleep paralysis demon fading to the darkest recesses of my mind. That demon is almost an old friend to me now. It's the most consistent thing in my life, second only to my dog. I would greet it with open arms if it didn't scare me so damn much.