Creatures I've known

This fellow I was acquainted with had the smartest dog in Mississippi County. Or that's what he claimed. The man's name was A.B. The dog's name was J. R. or something like that. He was an outside dog and he took his responsibilities seriously.

There was the time that A.B. and his son, Jack, were clearing the yard of dead limbs and other debris. They had a big bonfire going as they burned the trash they had collected.

J. R. decided to help out. When the owner and his son went inside for a cold drink of water, J. R. inspected the smoldering fire and pulled a remnant of burning carpet from the heap. Then he proceeded to drag the smoldering carpet over close to the house. Very close. In fact, he put it in some tall dead grass against the side of the house.

By the time the owner returned, there was a rip roaring grass fire threatening to burn the house down.

A.B. grabbed the garden hose and was able to extinguish the fire. He said it was a good thing the hose was intact because J.R. was the only dog he knew who could dissect a 50 foot garden hose in 12 inch lengths.

A. B. often bragged about his well read dog. The dog especially liked to read the newspaper. If he could manage to get to the (thrown) paper before his owner did, he would read it from top to bottom, leaving tiny pieces of newspaper strewn all over the yard.

A. B. said the dog made up in smarts what he lacked in looks.

One of my girlfriends owned a toy schnauzer,. His name was Little Bill, because he was so small. One summer she brought him for a visit. When I first saw him I thought he was the cutest thing. He had a tiny red bandana tied around his neck. I soon learned he had a fault. He wouldn't stop barking.

The next day for eight hours, he ran round and round my backyard pond and barked at any and everything he saw in the pond, including the fishing boat, a red fishing bobber, a frog, or turtle, or a leaf or stick floating in the water, or a fish jumping..

That night, Little Bill had lost his bark. He could barely croak out a sound as he lay prone on my couch. In fact, the next day he was so sore he could barely move his legs. My friend talked about taking him to the vet. I told her to wait a day or two because I thought the dog would recover. By the time she left, Little Bill had regained his bark and he was running all about, good as new. He had just overextended himself, like a city kid turned loose in the country. Might have been the first time he saw a pond.

Then there was C.W., the turken. He was master of the chicken coop, a big bully among the other chickens. Now C.W. was a chicken, but he was an oddity in the chicken world. His long neck was naked, without feathers. Many people call them a turken or turk believing them to be half turkey and half chicken, but they aren't related to the turkey. Turkens are bred to be easy to pluck, and they do resemble a turkey.

C.W. was white, and he stood tall like Sheriff Buford Pusser.

But he had a bad habit. He had large spurs and he liked to use them. Often while I was feeding the other chickens he would sneak behind me and attack, flogging and spurring if he could. Those hard spurs on his legs could bring blood.

My small grandson became afraid of C.W. after the cock flew up in his face, then sometimes tried to flog him. Often I would have to intervene

At times, C.W. minded his own business but as he grew older he became meaner.

One day I gave my grandson a long round stick from the woodpile. I called it the "killing stick." I told him that he should use the stick to protect himself from the turk.

That worked pretty well unless my grandson was playing and forgot, too late, about the stick.I would yell, "Go get your stick." While C. W. was flailing, my grandson would flail back with his stick, causing the turk to retreat. At least the stick gave some protection from the attacks.

One day I decided that the turk had to go. I would get rid of him for my grandson's sake.

I found a woman who seemed glad to get him, to add him to her barnyard menagerie.

Not long after, she contacted me. She explained that the turk terrorized her other poultry. Would I please take him back?

So I took him back. When I went to retrieve him, he was jailed in a small back building, away from the other chickens running free in her fenced backyard.

After a few months, I gave the turk to a country neighbor where the turk soon ruled the roost. He seemed content there, sleeping in the barn and roaming the yard in the daytime. Later, with his eyesight failing, he got run over by a danged old truck.

However, the turk is one of those memories that won't be forgotten. Mention the turk or the killing stick and all family members start nodding and remembering that odd ugly creature.