Over in Newport, which has a reputation for being rough, there is an old couple I've seen time and time again, just sitting on their front porch, rocking and watching the cars go by. They would be easy prey for the many burglars and what-not that frequent the area, except for their companion on the porch . . . the BIGGEST freaking Rottweiler (or as they say around here, Rockwilder???) I've ever seen in my life. Now, after you read this, close your eyes and get the mental picture . . . an old stone cottage with a big front porch sitting eight feet or so above the level of the road, back from the road about thirty feet, the little old lady sitting there in her flowered dress, white hair done up in the back, rocking and fanning herself as she dozes; the little old man in his faded overalls and plaid workshirt, cuffs and neck now far too big for his wrists and neck, bald head - just a fluffy fringe of white tonsuring above his ears, leaned forward whittling, and that huge, monster of a dog laying there in between them, raising that massive round head up every now and then to glare balefully at someone walking by or just the world in general to let his people know he is on the job . . .