My Daddy's Hound Dog
My
daddy was a country boy who grew up in
Buster
was a present to my daddy on his tenth birthday and immediately became his
constant companion. Buster would follow Daddy to school and wait patiently in
the shade or under the stoop in bad weather. As Buster grew, he began to show
his natural bent as a hunting dog, and when my daddy received his first shotgun
on his twelfth birthday, Buster was ready to be his hunting companion. Boy and
dog formed a special bond and an amazing ability to communicate. It was almost
as if they could actually speak to and understand each other. By the time my
daddy was fifteen, he and Buster had become small local legends due to their
special hunting prowess.
In
the summer of my daddy's fifteenth year he was given the chore to clear the
high weeds from a field near the house. Of course, there were no power tools so
my daddy was using a scythe to cut the weeds. A scythe is somewhat of an
ergonometric anachronism considering its ancient lineage for it is a wondrous
combination of wood and metal designed to be the perfect cutting tool. A
scythe's handle is shaped in a special way that along with a two foot-plus
blade it enables a man to cut a wide swathe using the muscles of his arms and
shoulders without placing strain upon his back. As the sun rose, my daddy had
shucked his shirt, and Buster had taken to the shade of the nearby woods.
My
daddy worked as that hot Georgia sun gave strength to his muscles with nothing
but the sound of buzzing insects and the steady whish, whish of the scythe
doing its job until he heard Buster's yowling bark coming from the woods. He
knew that this particular bark was one that signaled Buster had found a rabbit
to chase. My daddy lay down the scythe with its sharp blade pointing toward the
sky and was taking a drink of fresh spring water from a Mason jar which he had
brought with him as he listened to the beautiful sound of Buster's bark.
Suddenly,
the rabbit burst from the woods and began running across the field in Daddy's
direction with Buster hot on his tail. Daddy couldn't believe that the rabbit
was running right toward him and was cussing the fact that he had not brought
along shotgun. That rabbit continued to run in Daddy's direction and scooted,
in the blink of an eye, between Daddy and the scythe. Buster was not so agile
and ran straight into the blade of the scythe hitting the blade right at his
shoulder.
My
daddy couldn't believe his eyes when he saw that Buster's momentum had caused
the sharp blade of the scythe to slice him right through from shoulder to rump.
Buster fell to the ground in two pieces. Any ordinary person would have
panicked, but Daddy was used to seeing all sorts of injuries while working
around the farm, so without even having to think, he picked up Buster, grabbed
his shirt, wrapped him tightly together, and ran with Buster to the house and
my grandmother.
My
grandmother was used to doctoring all sorts of injuries and wounds to men and
animals, but she had never seen anything quite like what had happened to
Buster. She couldn't believe that Buster was actually still alive when my daddy
came bursting into the house.
"Son,
there is no way I can save that dog. He's just hurt too bad."
"Oh
Lord, oh Lord! Please, Momma, you've got to fix him! Please, Momma, please fix
him!"
My
grandmother looked at her son's tear-stained, anguished face and knew she had
to try even though it was useless. She told him to hold Buster tightly together
as she quickly prepared a poultice. All the while, Buster looked toward my
daddy with cloudy eyes slowly licked his hand.
When
the poultice was prepared, my grandmother was afraid to take the shirt off of
Buster so she just packed the poultice thickly all around Buster and then
wrapped all of that in a clean sheet. She got some old quilts and made a bed
for Buster in the corner of the kitchen where he could stay warm from the heat
of the iron stove when the evening chill arrived. My daddy put Buster into his
bed and lay down beside him. Afterwards, my grandmother excused herself to her
bedroom and quietly wept - not so much for Buster but for the heartache she
knew my daddy must face when Buster died.
That
evening after my grandfather had arrived home from his job in town, both he and
my grandmother tried to get my daddy to eat supper and sleep in his own bed,
but my daddy insisted that he was not hungry and was going to stay with Buster.
They left my daddy there in the corner of the kitchen knowing that the morning
would bring the realization that Buster had died.
After
worrying throughout the night, my grandmother and grandfather were up before
dawn, lighting the stove, and beginning preparations for breakfast. My daddy,
as is the wont of most teenagers, was still sound
asleep. My grandfather thought it was best that he take Buster out and bury him
before my daddy woke up. He was astounded to find that Buster was still alive,
and not only alive, but actually moving a little with eyes slightly less
cloudy.
As
the days and weeks passed, Buster began to move around in his cocoon of
bandages more and more until it was determined that he was well enough to have
the bandages removed. As my grandmother lovingly removed first the sheet and
then my daddy's shirt a sight not to be believed was revealed. It appeared
that, in his haste to grab up Buster and wrap him in the shirt, my daddy had
slapped him together with two legs going up and two legs going down. Nature had
miraculously allowed Buster to live in that deformed state and had created a
dog that was a wonder to behold. For, you see, after that time, Buster was
twice the hunting dog he had been before because he could run on two legs for a
long time, and then when he got tired, he could flip over and run on the other
two for just as long.
Buster
and my daddy became more than just local legends. Buster lived to be twenty
years old and was even my companion when I was an infant. My daddy's hound dog
was some dog!
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