Dog Days/W R Cummings 1 DOG DAYS Mid-July days, in the Mid-west, frequently would hit the mid-nineties. That was one of those days – sunny, hot, and humid. High blue skies, smattered with little puffs of clouds, accompanied with just a whisper of a breeze. A Sunday in mid-20th century rural America was still considered a true day of rest. The day commenced with a misty cool stillness, overseen by the patiently rising morning sun that would swiftly fuel the temperatures skywards. The pre-dawn quiet was not interrupted by the banal plop-plop of tossed newspapers slapping driveways, as in city neighborhoods. Here, the dawn was announced by a periodic roosters’ crowing from various directions, pinpointing the location of each farmstead. The livestock, anticipating the morning chores, interjected their urgent, incessant comments for the new day. Attending church, and just resting, taking a nap, were encouraged, if not expected of a young boy. Only acts of necessity and mercy, tending to the livestock or visiting and assisting friends and family, were acceptable Sunday activities. To Felix, a six-year old boy, these afternoons seemed like an eternity to idle away. Lying around that day, sweaty and hot, sleep just wasn’t an option. A walk was permissible. By all standards the 160 acres was considered a small farm. Since farmers raised both crops and livestock, it meant that there never was an off-season, just that some times of year were busier than others. Clad in faded, raggedy, blue denim bibbed overalls, shirtless and barefoot he took off to explore this limited farmland world, with a degree of restlessness and the household’s two farm-dogs. The dogs were free to roam, but always came when called for companionship. Dog Days/W R Cummings 2 They had been given by friends in the community to fill the void of “man’s best friend” on the small acreage. There was no extra money for purchasing pets, and fortunately, in this case, there wasn’t a shortage of unwanted “extras” to be willingly shared with any taker. The matching of these two animals isn’t important, neither owned a pedigree, and they certainly made for an odd pair at first glance. The elegant, lanky large Irish setter loping along behind the scurrying pace-setting rat terrier – a magnificent red banner, paired with the rambunctious, black blur. As puppies, this twosome had been acquired within days of each other. Prior to their arrival, the three boys in the family had not had a dog for some time, limited to varying quantities of cats and kittens for pets. Over the years there was not an aversion to having dogs around. It was just that there had been a history of bad and unacceptable behavior on the part of the big mixed-breed dogs on this farm. On the day of doom for the previous two dogs, the older brother was at school and the younger, too small for “men’s” work, was inside the large two-story farm house with his mother. Felix was impressionable and he was much impressed the morning the last two mongrels were served justice by his father, the resident judge, jury, and executioner. The tendency to dig holes around the farm buildings was pretty much overlooked and easily corrected. Their egg sucking ways, although much more critical, had been deterred by reframing the chickens’ entrance to the hen house, making it too small for the large self-serving creatures to access the daily crop of eggs. The eggs were considered critical for food, with the extras sold periodically for a few dollars, which in turn purchased the staples that had become the current priority. Accidentally breaking an egg was equivalent to throwing money away. There was just no way that these pets were going to spend time in the hen house or in the residence, let alone assume a decision making position in the household. However, the chasing down and joy killing of the baby Durocs from the spring litters was “strike three – you’re gone”! The rapid succession of that morning’s events was Dog Days/W R Cummings 3 dizzying and certainly a lot was missed or not remembered. It was sickening to see opportunistic flies magically appear, settling on the silent, bloody, still warm mutilated carcasses, which a short time earlier had been squealing frenziedly as the molesters sorted them out for nothing but brute pleasure. Too agile and quick, working in tandem, they out-hustled the sharp teeth of the irate sows, oblivious to their ferocious guttural hacks. Their only intention was to savagely latch onto each darting porcine missile, shake and maul the defenseless animal lifeless, and sprint on to overtake the next victim. More sickening was the non-verbalized, heartfelt anguish and anger that saturated the space surrounding the boy and his father. Here was another case of those thievish hounds stealing from the master and his family. “Those bastards!” What a memory, those cowering, snarling black villains, writhing together under the front porch of the house like a nest of vipers! Squatting beside his dad, who lay flat on the ground, he witnessed him methodically aim the rifle at the anxious, quaking, beady-eyed demons staring out from their lair, whimpering and slathering confessions. Separated by but a mere moment to reload, there were the two retorts, one for each dog. The sound seemed muffled compared to the piercing cries from those doomed piglets. It was as if the barks from the gun, silencing the barks of those two wretched animals, had brought the farm a welcome calm. Now, these months later, the fears that all dogs had an inherent evil within, had been eased by the personalities and obedience that these two replacements displayed. Old Red, not because he was old, but just that he appeared so when aligned with the spryer, hyperactive Tippy. They both openly expressed their joy in being alive and serving as caretakers of the farm and the occupants. How good could a good life be – no cares, no Dog Days/W R Cummings 4 rain, no nagging – just fresh air, and time to share with two great companions! Time flew. He walked a familiar path, through the barnyard, over a sagging gate, squeezed through a couple of barbed wire fences and jogged down the grassy slope to the creek. The boy maintained the course of his mission while the dogs would rush off and disappear, their presence and location noted only by the movement of the tall grasses as they forged blindly along, exploring the whims of over-sensitive noses. Brightly colored butterflies flitted and floated at an unhurried pace, seemingly disconnected from all except some internal tempo directing their aerial maneuvers. Hours seemed but minutes, minutes were but seconds; clocks should never control adventures like these. Time for exploring the creek, watching the long-legged water spiders skittering across the top of the glassy, calm water near the shallow banks. Time for skipping flat stones on the skyreflecting surface of a large pool which had formed over the years from the culvert directing the steady gurgling water flow from the opposite side of the road. Time for poking a stick at the tadpoles wriggling along the bottom of shallow pockets of clear water. Finally emerging from the cool shade of the willows to float twigs down the riverette, the boy repeatedly un-snagged the out of control vessels, as they became moored in the perilous voyage through the weeds and the ruts formed by the hooves of livestock. The dogs also left the pool, shaking to free themselves from their coats of water, generating a mist that briefly flashed miniature rainbows in the gleaming sunlight. They scrambled up and down the uneven banks that funneled the un-pausing stream, eager to continue their trek, even though their lolling tongues and incessant panting gave the impression of sheer exhaustion. The creek had wended its way cattycorner across the field and now flowed through the sagging wire fence, drifting under a narrow gravel-surfaced bridge with once red, but now rusted, metal supports on either side. This was not Madison County, and this was not one of those rustic, elegant covered bridges. The boy edged his way through the Dog Days/W R Cummings 5 fence, arching his back as he snaked between the woven and the barbed wire, avoiding the gnarled metal talons poised to rake the unprotected skin of his shoulders and back. Safely negotiating the fence he found cool shelter from the sun under the bridge. It was a delight to find the “baby-hand” imprints left behind by a family of raccoons, searching for crawfish or just passing through on their nocturnal wanderings. At least they were not loitering around the chicken house with their curious masked faces, seeking an opportunity to exercise their bandit skills. There were a few additional but much fainter tracks left by some muskrats and then the tracings of pigeons’ feet along with a couple of fluffy feathers. The sun had begun to droop in the western sky, as though the day had used it up. The rolling calm fields animated only by the rising, radiating waves of heat now had subtle but real motion coming from the ever so slight stir of a breeze. Although the boy had never been to the ocean, his sea of green vegetation rippled into an occasional wave, highlighted by a whitecap of disturbed butterflies taking flight. Leaving the cool comfort and protection of the bridge he emerged to the exposure of the sun and encountered a gust of hot air. A sudden chill drove through him; this was his intuitive wakeup call to head back to the house. Deciding to return to the house by the longer but easier and quicker route of the road, he whistled for the dogs, which were still rambling, nuzzling every cranny for a new olfactic high. His feet were toughened and could endure walking on the chunky limestone surface, but purposefully he chose to emphasize each step, imprinting the fine brown powdery dust along the berm of the road. Each step generated a tiny poof of dust. The silky feel of the talcum fine soil was euphoric. His trail was easily traceable, occasionally entwined with the weaving tracks left in the wake of the dogs’ erratic course. The return hike was less than a mile and not difficult, but suddenly it seemed burdensome. The dogs were still active and gave him encouraging nudges with their Dog Days/W R Cummings 6 damp noses, as he continued to trudge along at a crawl. The afternoon was still hot and occasionally he would wipe the sweat off his face with his grimy palms, besmudging his forehead and cheeks. He reached the intersection of the road and turned right where the peaked roofs of the farm buildings and the house were just a quarter of a mile to the south. He interrupted his pace and stopped momentarily to look down the steep embankment to the pool where they had earlier been wading among the velvety tadpoles. How he wished that the venture were just starting! The dogs now hung close to him as they approached home. The ditch along the road became less steep, just a slight rise up to the granary off to his right. He stopped in the shadow of the building, selected one smooth stone from the roadway and winged it at the shaded, faded red side of the building where it struck with a whack before falling to mark a preordained spot on the ground. Fifty feet from the front porch of the house the weedy ditch merged with the groomed grass of the lawn. Behind him he heard a car approaching the same intersection they had left minutes before, only it had come from the east, down a dirt road that offered varying degrees of passability, depending on the weather and the dedication of the county road maintenance crew. It was the only car they had seen all day. That rattley, old car seemed as if it could barely move as it slowly crept around the turn and up the road towards the boy and his dogs. The gravel crunched and rumbled as the dusty, rusty black behemoth of a vehicle grumbled closer. The only thing colorful about the approaching heap was the car’s dark blue and gold license plate – Pennsylvania; they were from out of state. The laborious approach of the car was accentuated by what appeared to be a dozen bodies crammed and wedged into the aged four-door sedan. Well, not entirely all of them were contained within the ugly automobile. Some of the rag-tag kids were hanging out of the windows yelling, laughing, waving - just celebrating the outing, all out for a Sunday Dog Days/W R Cummings 7 drive, family time, seeking relief from the scorching day’s heat. As they approached, the boy could see the woman sitting on the passenger side of the front seat, holding the latest addition to the family. Her face was tired, drawn, her sunken cheeks and hollow eyes were expressionless, no emotion, corpselike. The child was definitely hers. The man driving was perfectly matched with her. His sallow face was highlighted by a bristly growth of several days. The glow of the late day sun highlighted the crevices of his weathered face, giving him a villainous touch. A stub of a cigarette dangled limply from the corner of his mouth, giving the impression that he hadn’t enough energy to take one more drag before casually pitching it out of the window. Although his small dark eyes were positioned deep in his sweaty, bony face, there was an unmistakable glint to them that signaled, “Danger! Danger! Beware!” He glowered at the boy and his world without focusing. On they came! It was but seconds and the car was abreast of the road-weary trio. The boy gave a hesitant, half-hearted, waist-high, wave as he observed the spectacle slowly pass. Like a shot the little black dog leapt into action. He had chased cars all his short life and never caught one of them. Why he chased them, who knows, perhaps to protect those he loved, perhaps just for the elation of the chase. This time though he was gaining on the car, in fact the car slowed so he could catch up. He was running alongside the rear wheel; then he was parallel to the passenger door; then he was just to the right of the front tire. The car braked slightly, just as the driver wrenched the steering wheel to the right. The car’s passengers unanimously let out a loud “whoa-whee!” as if they were riding on some heart-stopping carnival ride. They didn’t hear the thump, but felt the slight bump, as the car’s wheel that had been intentionally aimed at the little dog, rolled him under, crushing his very existence, as it passed over his body. The auto righted its course and merged back into the worn grooves in the road. The hoard hung over the sides of the auto or pressed against the rear window to get one last view of the scene they were departing. The disturbed brown dust wafted behind the vehicle creating a veil to diffuse the fleeing Dog Days/W R Cummings 8 band from reality. How could such people exist? “You bastards!” Initially the boy was stunned and numb-founded by the horror that had just ravaged his world. His throat felt constricted, preventing him from exhaling the last breath taken. There was a retching and convulsing as he fought to clear his head and retain consciousness. Just as he was ready to faint his head jerked back allowing his lungs to cough out the stale air. His sides heaved as he alternated breathing in hatred and exhaling sorrow, and inhaling sorrow and expelling hatred. “You bastards!” The scene was grim. Tippy lay broken and twisted on his back. Though he was the carnage, he didn’t make a sound. What thoughts could be flying through that tiny canine brain as his forelegs reflexedly pawed at the sky? The instant the tire caught him and pulled him under there was an exploding flash through his head that dimmed the sun’s brilliance, followed by a ripple of pain that immediately blended into the calm chill of freezing. Very smoothly and softly his vision became clouded with a golden film, progressively becoming darker and darker, turning to amber, still darker until finally blackness edged into the periphery of his mind’s eye. His short legs continued to flail, attempting to push back the impending darkness of death. His futile fight for life slowed to a twitch, and a tic, and finally stillness. Tippy was dead. The big red dog shied away from the death scene on the road, ambled up the slight rise to the lawn, and dropped to his belly as he moaned every pain and anguish of earthly suffering. The sleek red head, lying between his two forepaws, drooped to a restful but unresting position on the ground. The big brown eyes rolled up in their sockets, showing Dog Days/W R Cummings 9 two white crescents beneath each dark iris. He appeared as if he wished his unblinking eyes to flow with tears. The boy’s shoulders slumped in despair. Uncertain whether to run or yell for help he did neither. He slowly shuffled over to his mangled little dog. Falling on his knees, feet and legs oblivious to the gouging gravel, he huddled over his lifeless friend, just hoping upon hope for some sign of life. There was none. The lump in his throat, the tension in his neck, and the splitting headache gave way to a deluge of tears. The huge droplets beaded on the dusty black hide of the motionless little animal. More tears fell and mingled in the small dark crimson pool of blood that had drooled from Tippy’s mouth. The streams unabashedly washed pale streaks in the grime on the boy’s “hard-day’s” face. He shoveled the dog into his arms, drew the limp mass close, lifting the little body up from the gravel road, and stumbled with the heavier-than-expected load toward the grassy lawn next to Old Red. Together they collapsed, one heaving and gasping for air, the other still, no longer interested or concerned about the living. Old Red never moved. The boy was calmed by the sudden coolness of the grass on his hot, scraped skin. How good could a good life be; fresh air, fresh tears, and a dead companion? Out of the two why did the black one have to die? Why not the red one if there had to be a choice? Why? Oh, why? Why? Over the next hour evening settled in, a shallow hole was dug near the granary, precisely where the boy’s stone had ricocheted and landed. Tippy, unceremoniously but gently, was laid to rest. The once undisturbed ground now sported a mound of freshly dug loam soil, blanketing in darkness the soulless body that had added so much life to the young boy’s days. What had begun as a brilliant day had changed to sadness, and now finally turned night. A marker would be fashioned the next morning from a cedar shingle and placed at the head of Tippy’s grave. Dog Days/W R Cummings 10 From that night, for ten nights, Old Red lay atop that grave, refusing to move, refusing food, even scraps from the table, occasionally lapping up a few swallows of water from a bucket when it was carried to him, but for the most part he fasted. Initially he had dug at the burial mound, insistent on unearthing his deceased friend, but vocal threats and a raised fist convinced him that he should leave the grave alone. He must have felt that in some way he was responsible for the mishap and not Tippy’s out-of-control, rambunctious nature. With each passing day he looked, ganglier and gaunter, than the previous twenty-four hours. On the eleventh morning after Tippy’s demise, Old Red was absent from the gravesite. Repeated whistles and calls went unanswered by the large dog that had faithfully overseen Tippy’s burial plot. He was never seen again. Probably overwhelmed by grief, he had gone off to some out-of–the-way place to die of a broken heart, both for his own friend Tippy and for the boy who now seemed alien from all around him, carrying an unending burden of sorrow. The farm was in mourning!