It was 2:00AM. The light tropical thunderstorm had just passed through the valley and was slowly fading into the rounded hilltops that surround that part of the city. The air was cool, wet and fresh. Small bursts of lightning softened inside the remaining clouds tactfully defined the shape and feel of the landscape as the low, rolling thunder showcased the acoustics. The street lights traced the main road up and around the long slow curve to the intersection midway up the hill where it was stopped by a smaller cross street that loosely marked the end of the small business district and the beginning the shanty town. In the center of the intersection was a triangular island of raised concrete dimly spotlighted by two faded streetlights on the back corners.
The trio, a tenor, a deep chested alto and a thin soprano surveyed the area and took the stage. The vantage point of the island was sufficient for a good view in any direction. Still, only a few pedestrians and some lone vehicles could be seen passing slowly by, but clearly the trio were not performing for the crowd anyway...at least not that crowd.
The alto was clearly the leader of the group. With relaxed demeanor and confidence, he took the stage first, strolling to the front point of it and scanning the horizon for any would be critics. With his companions following trustingly to either side, he took a deep satisfied breath, and with the penetrating force a train horn in an opera house he belted out the show starting Woo-Woo-Woo-WOOF as only a dignified, capital hound could ever do. Addis was their town and this was their night.
Well with an opening as grand as that, no one else could help themselves, The tenor in the group caught the last not of the opening so smoothly it sounded as if one continuous voice had just changed songs without even taking a breath. When the soprano caught the rhythm he punctuated it so well that every self respecting mutt within earshot (and that's a long, long shot) had to contribute.
As entire square miles of city turned into the sort of echoing roar you would hear at a Super Bowl or a World Cup or a very very large, unsupervised dog pound, it seamed nothing could stop the celebration of how absolutely wonderful it is to bark at the top of your lungs against the soothing calm and beauty that the night had provided so well. Nothing that is except the two official looking men with large, matching sticks approaching the stage at a quickly metered step. The group, obviously familiar with these critics, retreated back stage at a quick but not panicked stride. In the time it took for the critics to disappear down the same ally the trio seamed to have taken, the altos' head popped out from the bushes just behind the stage, carefully scanned the horizon and then victoriously returned to front and center with his companions in step behind him. As they again took their places he filled his chest deeply with the cool night air, paused for affect, and with self satisfied tilt of his nose to the sky, he belted out again what the masses had apparently been anxiously awaiting for at least a full minute. This time before the first measure could even be finished the raucous cheer consumed the entire valley. On and on the celebration continued into the night with no further interruption.