Tamer
old man geezer neighbored ‘hi’
green teeth sugar smile on mutant head,
made me round up puppy dog
in shed that housed his dusty clunker,
made me think doggie a prize
to keep, if I would place the tie
around his neck “and just keep calm,
he’s a stray but he’ll make a fine pet”
said this farmhand, my young mom’s friend -
he knew about the wren I tamed,
and my bunnies from under the porch nest,
mom told him about my way with the wilds
so I knew why he picked me
child that I was -
it took awhile for that stray to gain my trust
“you’re a good girl, now hold him still”
I never saw it coming! but I can still hear it
reverberating off thin tin siding and, oh my God!
strange Elmer’s crazyface *flash* smokinghand!
frozen in time, this memory, this heart,
and the way its body went thump thump
on the gravel behind his truck to the dump.
Janet Leigh
Janet Leigh said:
ReplyDeleteThe dog I helped kill as a youngster in Tamer poem above took a real toll on my sensitive soul. Elmer drove the dead dog a short distance from my house to the side of the ball park across the street and buried it but not deep enough. I went over there every day for a good number of days, sobbing and asking the dog to forgive me for what I had done. I can still remember all the stages of decomposition and horrible stench I sat through while crying and talking to this dead dog. Sorry if I’ve bored you with this background story, Rick. I guess it still isn’t out of my system after all these years. sigh.
Glenn Buttkus wrote:
When I was 8 years old we were renting a small farm, and there was chicken ranch next door. A stray dog wandered in, and it became “my pooch”. It was part Shepherd and part mutt, huge and black, and I dubbed it Midnight.
My stepfather was summoned next door one morning, and come to find out Midnight had gotten into the chicken house the night before and killed dozens of prize pullets. The neighbor told my Dad that if he destroyed the dog, he would not have to be sued of pay damages. Art came to me, with his rifle on his shoulder. “Put the leash on Midnight, Butch,” he said. We walked together up into the north pasture. We had brought a shovel. Art, who was very muscular, dug the grave. “Tell your dog to get in the hole,” he said. I did, and the dog complied. He licked my hand before I unhooked him and ordered him to leap into eternity. Art shot him with his 30/30 carbine. The barrol was only inches from my head. The shot was dead center between the dog’s eyes. He went down hard, with one quick yelp. Then Art stood there while I used the shovel and filled in the hole, the terrible shot still ringing in my ears. Sometimes late at night I still hear the shot, and the yelp, and my heart is torn asunder again.
Glenn
Janet Leigh responded with:
Glenn, I so wanted to write you last night after reading your dog (horror) story, but I fled in tears, instead. I could only absorb about a third of your story at a time. I literally had to stop reading so I wouldn’t freak out. I thought my experience was a horror, but I can’t even imagine going through what you did - at such a tender young age. I’d probably go catatonic on everyone and become the crazy aunt who lives in the attic. I’m sorry to be quick to interject myself into a personal story of yours, but what the ^%$#@ was your stepfather thinking!?! Was this the beginning of a downward spiral in your relationship with Art (I’ll bite my tongue at this misnomer..)? Again, I apologize for seeming so judgmental of your stepfather, but geezes, having gone through a similar trauma I’m pretty sensitive about the judgment of some adults. (I’m near tears again. Gosh, but it must be true that we relive things done to us in childhood - as a child - all over again.) May God grant you an end to your nightmares over Midnight, Glenn, and give you peace from an act of cruelty not of your making and powerless to escape. We have the power to make something good out of an evil so I shall find comfort in knowing you are the one person who has endured that which I have experienced and have to live with forever. I hope in telling your story the pain it holds over your mind ceases and becomes powerless, my friend.