Page 37 - WTP Vol. IX #8

I leapt the gravel road and sprinted into the Jenkins’ front yard. About twenty feet from the porches’ front steps, Mrs. Jenkins was spinning in circles with a straw broom, trying to swat a pack of dogs while yelling at the top of her lungs. The animals were all fangs, blood, snot, and snarls as they whirled around her. I grabbed up a tobacco stick and leapt into the tornado of chaos. I began swinging wildly at the dogs, hitting whichever one was the closest while rapidly praying that they wouldn’t turn on me. My heart raced, and bile stuck in my throat. Suddenly, they broke apart, looked frantically around, and beelined for the woods at the far side of the hayfield. I lost sight of them quickly, but there was no doubt at all that Waldo was in the pack.
Returning to the front yard, I walked over to where Mrs. Jenkins was kneeling.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” I asked.
Tears streaked a face as white as morning frost.
Marty Johnson owned the wholesale milk truck that gathered milk from local farms to deliver to the town’s distribution center. He had parked in the gravel driveway and walked over to where we were. We both gazed down at Mrs. Jenkins. In her arms, bloody, unmoving, and silent, was her cocker spaniel, Gretchen. I could see that her girl parts were swollen and red. Embarrassment lit my face with the realiza- tion that Gretchen had been in heat. While going out to do her morning business, several dogs (including Waldo) had caught wind of her and assembled in a gruesome battle over stud rights. Somewhere in the mayhem, one of the dogs had ripped open Gretchen’s throat. We stood in silence for several minutes,
and Mr. Johnson finally said, “Let me take her, Sally. There’s nothing that we can do for her now.”
She glanced up at us blankly and said, “No, I guess not.” “Is Ned already out feeding?” he asked.
She nodded, got to her feet, and handed over Gretch- en to Mr. Johnson. She turned and walked shakily
to the front porch steps while absently wiping her bloody hands on the front of her apron.
“Help me bury her, Claude,” he said to me while pointing to the gardening shed. “I’m sure you can find a shovel in there.”
Blinding darkness filled the little room, and I expect- ed it to be in as bad a shape as ours. Surprisingly, as my eyes adjusted, I saw several tools neatly orga- nized on wall hooks. I grabbed the round nose shovel and followed Mr. Johnson out to the backyard, where
two small crosses already stood near an old white oak. Clearly, this was an area where the Jenkins’ had laid previous pets to rest. We dug a three-foot-deep grave and gently laid Gretchen down within a few feet of her prior kin. Providing no last rights, we sim- ply placed the remains of the bloodied pooch gently in the hole and covered her with the clumpy frozen soil. I returned the shovel to the tidy shed and walked over to the front porch where Mrs. Jenkins was now sitting. She was silent and eerily calm. I was unnerved by her demeanor, and my palms began to sweat de- spite the cold morning air.
We could hear Mr. Jenkins coming in from the feed barn on his old Ford tractor. Like most farmers in the area, he was coming in for breakfast after the early feeding. Dismounting, he exchanged a quizzical nod with Mr. Johnson as he went up to the front porch where Mrs. Jenkins now sat rocking. She filled him in on the happenings, and he contemplated the situa- tion before looking up at me.
“Your dad up yet, son?”
“I think so, sir, but he’s likely not had his morning cof- fee. You want me to fetch him?”
“No, head home and tell him what happened. I’ll be over shortly to discuss it.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll go tell him right now!” I stammered with more excitement than the situation demand- ed. My face turned bright red, and my stomach con- tinued to churn as I raced back toward the house to wake up Pa.
Pete had gotten Waldo as a puppy from our cousin Oscar in exchange for stripping tobacco two summers ago. Waldo was a Tennessee Walker, and Pete had trained him into a fine coonhound. Waldo was stub- born, but he was a loving dog like most are at the end
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