From eastbound cyclists, wise and hard, the westbound learn of thunder and wind, of coral snakes, tics, and the dogs of Kentucky. “They come out barking,” I was told in Virginia, “and if you’re not careful, defensive and brave, grab hold of your leg, and they don’t want to play.” “You need to keep pepper spray, acid, or rocks,” and one even hinted he carries a gun, I figured for comfort, but maybe for fun. Now, I’ve been in Kentucky a week and a half, so forgive if a drawl slips from lips on a roll, and a yarn from a farm along Jack Turner Holler. No weapon had I, not even a rock, When a mutt came out and barked as they said. I’d have left him behind if not pedaling uphill. I said, “You’re a nice dog, I know that you are,” and continued a monolog, cheery and tender. a duet with his snarls and snaps. For a moment, eyes met on a line between species. He bought it, I think, appeared to agree, seemed to say if I’d scratch him, my face he would lick. But then mistrust arose in his eyes, he’d been duped and turned angry, my friendship a sham, and came at my leg with a growl and saliva. Just about then the uphill crested, I shifted a gear, sped downward in fear, and left him there running, panting and sad. So ends a story of one who would bargain, to buy from a dog fewer fang punctured legs in exchange for a pat or even my lunch, and one who concluded the matter uncertain, too much of a threat, too little to trust, as he stood there watching his prey get away, then turned back to wonder, if dogs think that way, which loss was greater — the one he came out for or the one that was offered.