My father was a simple man in many ways. He was a quiet man who dressed modestly, and had simple tastes. In guns, he kept it all down to one gun, and he carried one knife. Yes, one of those mythical one knife guys. But he seemed to know how to make everything he had serve to the max. His little Case pocket knife did everything he needed, and his Colt Woodsman .22 pistol was his only gun. He carried it on woods walks, camping trips, fishing by the river, and it was in the drawer on the table on his side of the bed.
One crisp fall day, he and I had gone for a walk out in the woods in rural Maryland. In those days, before the developers had gone mad, there was a great deal of rural country side in Maryland. It was chilly enough that dad had on his usual Woolrich shirt/jacket that he used for light jacket. In the big button flap pockets he kept all sorts of things that came in handy now and then. His Colt woodsman was in his waistband just behind his right hip, with the round butt forward. The Colt was one of those little, trim pre-war models, and it rode very flat under the Woolrich shirt. This one day, he'd need it.
We'd just walked up a wooded hill, and a deer came running full tilt over the crest of the hill right at us, going by at a full run. This was unusual, and even as it ran by, dad was looking back up the hill, saying how he wondered what was chasing the deer. We didn't have but a few seconds to find out.
A large gray dog, looking like some kind of sheppard mix, was chasing the deer, and when he saw us, he stopped for a very brief few heartbeats, then charged right at us with teeth bared. I was maybe about 9 or 10 years of age at the time, and I admit I was scared. I think I must have started to back up because dad yelled "Stand still!' very loud, even as he drew the woodsman in a move faster than I would have thought he could. He didn't move at all, just stood there in a duelists stance, with the Colt held strait out like he was on a target range. It was all over in a few heartbeats of seconds. He fired three quick shots, and the charging dog went right down, plowing face first into the ground and flopping to a crumpled heap that lay very still on the carpet of pine needles.
It was one of those erie situations that seemed to take place in slow motion, and was over before your mind could even fully comprehend what was going on. Dad slowly lowered the gun halfway and made a careful approach to the big gray dog. The dog was dead, eyes open and staring at nothing.
All three rounds had went into the chest of the dog. Dad knelt down and examined the dog, and he shook his head in a sad way.
"Is he rabid, dad?" I asked him, "Why was he charging us like that?"
"He was starving, son. Look at him, his ribs are sticking out." he said as he pointed out the fur covered hide stretched tight over the bones. The ribs and hip bones of the dog looked like they were going to poke right through the hide. Dad went on in a sad voice.
"Someone dumped him out and he was just trying to survive. Maybe even driven mad by hunger. He didn't know how to hunt, and wasn't part of a pack to make a kill. Sometimes people don't want a dog anymore, so they just take them out to the country and dump them out thinking they will survive, or they just don't care because it's not their problem anymore. I hate that sort of thing, and truth be told, I'd rather have shot the owner of the dog."
Dad straitened up from where he was looking at the dog, and didn't say anything for a moment. Then he said something that surprised even me. Knowing dad, he was always full of surprises, but I never saw this coming.
"We should bury him. He deserved better than this."
When dad made up his mind to do something, I knew never argue, just do it.
"Go get a stout stick or three, we're going to dig."
Dad and I rounded up some sticks,one of which was a stout dead limb from a downed tree. Dad took out his Case peanut and started to whittle a sharp edge on one of the sticks. I watched him as he made a wedge shaped chisel end on one of the sticks, and then he unbuttoned one of the flap pockets on his Woolrich and took out a small ball of twine. He took the very stout dead limb, and using an X figure lashing , he made a wooden pick out of gathered broken off limbs. He told me to scoop out what he dug up. Using his improvised pick, he dug up the ground, pausing while I would scoop out the loose dirt with my hands. After a bit, he took of his wool jacket and kept on picking while I scooped. It didn't take long to have a makeshift grave dug. He stopped a few times to reshape the wedge on the pick with his Case pocket knife, then go again for a bit.
When the hole was deep enough, I was surprised at how gentle dad was as he lay the dog in the hole, so he looked like he was just curled up taking a nap. Before we filled in the grave, dad bent over and gently patted the gray fur on the shoulder of the dog.
"I'm sorry old boy. It wasn't your fault."
After we filled in the grave, dad sat on a downed tree trunk and stropped the little Case on his boot top. It had worked hard on old hard dry dead wood and dirt, and dad took a moment to touch it up a bit. As he stropped, he spoke to me in that quiet tone of voice he had.
"Man has dominion over the creatures, and we should be kind to them, but sometimes people arn't. It's a cruel thing to have a dog, have it be part of your family, so it's a member of your pack, then when you don't want to be bothered by it anymore, take him out to be abandoned in someplace where he's alone, scared, and unable to cope with survival. His world is turned upside down, and he doesn't know why. By it's teeth, that was an older dog, and maybe it had health problems. But that's no cause to abandon a dog. It'd be better off if they took him out back, fed him some cookies, and while he's eating the last cookie, put a pistol to his head and pull the trigger while he's happy. It's a rotten thing to do, just dump him out someplace. They say a society is measured by how we treat our animals. In this case, I don't think much of people. Our dogs deserve better from us."
For a quiet man like dad, it was quite a speech. But I thought long about his words.
He'd kept stropping his knife as he spoke, and now he gently tried the edge with his thumb. Nodding his head in a satisfied way, he brushed the Case closed against his leg and dropped it back in his pants pocket. I watched him carefully as he took out the Colt and dropped the magazine and replaced the spent rounds, putting the .22 woodsman back in his waistband.
"You feel really bad about shooting that dog, even though he was attacking us?' I asked him.
"Yes," dad said, "I have no bad feeling for that dog, he was just trying to survive in his own way. But I learned a very long time ago, that you do whatever you have to do, to survive the moment. You can have all the time in the world for regrets later, but you have to survive the moment, so that there will be a later time. Sometimes that means you can't stop to think about it, you may not have that luxury. You do what you have to, when you have to, and then go on with the business of life."
Many times over many years, I've thought about the things dad told me. Too many times I wished I'd heeded his advise.
For Sayoc01.
One crisp fall day, he and I had gone for a walk out in the woods in rural Maryland. In those days, before the developers had gone mad, there was a great deal of rural country side in Maryland. It was chilly enough that dad had on his usual Woolrich shirt/jacket that he used for light jacket. In the big button flap pockets he kept all sorts of things that came in handy now and then. His Colt woodsman was in his waistband just behind his right hip, with the round butt forward. The Colt was one of those little, trim pre-war models, and it rode very flat under the Woolrich shirt. This one day, he'd need it.
We'd just walked up a wooded hill, and a deer came running full tilt over the crest of the hill right at us, going by at a full run. This was unusual, and even as it ran by, dad was looking back up the hill, saying how he wondered what was chasing the deer. We didn't have but a few seconds to find out.
A large gray dog, looking like some kind of sheppard mix, was chasing the deer, and when he saw us, he stopped for a very brief few heartbeats, then charged right at us with teeth bared. I was maybe about 9 or 10 years of age at the time, and I admit I was scared. I think I must have started to back up because dad yelled "Stand still!' very loud, even as he drew the woodsman in a move faster than I would have thought he could. He didn't move at all, just stood there in a duelists stance, with the Colt held strait out like he was on a target range. It was all over in a few heartbeats of seconds. He fired three quick shots, and the charging dog went right down, plowing face first into the ground and flopping to a crumpled heap that lay very still on the carpet of pine needles.
It was one of those erie situations that seemed to take place in slow motion, and was over before your mind could even fully comprehend what was going on. Dad slowly lowered the gun halfway and made a careful approach to the big gray dog. The dog was dead, eyes open and staring at nothing.
All three rounds had went into the chest of the dog. Dad knelt down and examined the dog, and he shook his head in a sad way.
"Is he rabid, dad?" I asked him, "Why was he charging us like that?"
"He was starving, son. Look at him, his ribs are sticking out." he said as he pointed out the fur covered hide stretched tight over the bones. The ribs and hip bones of the dog looked like they were going to poke right through the hide. Dad went on in a sad voice.
"Someone dumped him out and he was just trying to survive. Maybe even driven mad by hunger. He didn't know how to hunt, and wasn't part of a pack to make a kill. Sometimes people don't want a dog anymore, so they just take them out to the country and dump them out thinking they will survive, or they just don't care because it's not their problem anymore. I hate that sort of thing, and truth be told, I'd rather have shot the owner of the dog."
Dad straitened up from where he was looking at the dog, and didn't say anything for a moment. Then he said something that surprised even me. Knowing dad, he was always full of surprises, but I never saw this coming.
"We should bury him. He deserved better than this."
When dad made up his mind to do something, I knew never argue, just do it.
"Go get a stout stick or three, we're going to dig."
Dad and I rounded up some sticks,one of which was a stout dead limb from a downed tree. Dad took out his Case peanut and started to whittle a sharp edge on one of the sticks. I watched him as he made a wedge shaped chisel end on one of the sticks, and then he unbuttoned one of the flap pockets on his Woolrich and took out a small ball of twine. He took the very stout dead limb, and using an X figure lashing , he made a wooden pick out of gathered broken off limbs. He told me to scoop out what he dug up. Using his improvised pick, he dug up the ground, pausing while I would scoop out the loose dirt with my hands. After a bit, he took of his wool jacket and kept on picking while I scooped. It didn't take long to have a makeshift grave dug. He stopped a few times to reshape the wedge on the pick with his Case pocket knife, then go again for a bit.
When the hole was deep enough, I was surprised at how gentle dad was as he lay the dog in the hole, so he looked like he was just curled up taking a nap. Before we filled in the grave, dad bent over and gently patted the gray fur on the shoulder of the dog.
"I'm sorry old boy. It wasn't your fault."
After we filled in the grave, dad sat on a downed tree trunk and stropped the little Case on his boot top. It had worked hard on old hard dry dead wood and dirt, and dad took a moment to touch it up a bit. As he stropped, he spoke to me in that quiet tone of voice he had.
"Man has dominion over the creatures, and we should be kind to them, but sometimes people arn't. It's a cruel thing to have a dog, have it be part of your family, so it's a member of your pack, then when you don't want to be bothered by it anymore, take him out to be abandoned in someplace where he's alone, scared, and unable to cope with survival. His world is turned upside down, and he doesn't know why. By it's teeth, that was an older dog, and maybe it had health problems. But that's no cause to abandon a dog. It'd be better off if they took him out back, fed him some cookies, and while he's eating the last cookie, put a pistol to his head and pull the trigger while he's happy. It's a rotten thing to do, just dump him out someplace. They say a society is measured by how we treat our animals. In this case, I don't think much of people. Our dogs deserve better from us."
For a quiet man like dad, it was quite a speech. But I thought long about his words.
He'd kept stropping his knife as he spoke, and now he gently tried the edge with his thumb. Nodding his head in a satisfied way, he brushed the Case closed against his leg and dropped it back in his pants pocket. I watched him carefully as he took out the Colt and dropped the magazine and replaced the spent rounds, putting the .22 woodsman back in his waistband.
"You feel really bad about shooting that dog, even though he was attacking us?' I asked him.
"Yes," dad said, "I have no bad feeling for that dog, he was just trying to survive in his own way. But I learned a very long time ago, that you do whatever you have to do, to survive the moment. You can have all the time in the world for regrets later, but you have to survive the moment, so that there will be a later time. Sometimes that means you can't stop to think about it, you may not have that luxury. You do what you have to, when you have to, and then go on with the business of life."
Many times over many years, I've thought about the things dad told me. Too many times I wished I'd heeded his advise.
For Sayoc01.
:thumbup:
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