One summer evening the three of us ventured nearly fours miles along the creek, and twilight was upon us as we started home. We usually followed the trail running along the creek banks, but, we were tired and the sun was going down. The path was getting difficult to follow, so we decided to cross the field and walk the road.
The pasture was no more than fifty yards across and we could make it in a few minutes. The trouble was that this particular field looked very much like the one that had a big bull in it, and the farmer also kept a mean dog that was usually chained.
Both animals had unsavory reputations in our minds, and we had, until then, made it a point to avoid confrontation. So, there we stood on the banks of the creek looking over the fence toward our objective, the road. The field was open and treeless, a no-man’s land that seemed harmless to the unwary eye, but we knew the enemy was out there waiting.
We spoke in whispers, “Do you hear anything?”
“No! Maybe we ought to go a little further before crossing!”
Finally it was decided, like Doughboys climbing out of the trenches we scaled the fence and started across. Instead of rifles, we each carried a fishing pole, and since I was of the lowest rank I got assigned the fishing box. By the time I cleared the fence Don and Lamar were already several paces ahead. We were moving swiftly across the field, but had gotten no more than a quarter of the way when the silhouette of the bull appeared off to our left. It was moving at a slow but deliberate pace toward us.
Panic! We made a dash for the road. I fell behind, my legs and arms pumping, the fishing pole whipping back and forth; the tackle box rattling and gyrating. It never occurred to me to drop the box. It was comforting to have something to hold on to, and I doubt that anyone could have pried it from my clutched fingers at that particular moment.
At the half-way point I realized that it was not the bull, but one of the milk cows that shared the field. I slowed my pace but only for a second. Somewhere behind, not far, came the baying of the mean dog. It was loose, out there, and gaining fast. A fourth of the remained to be crossed. The other two had climbed the fence to safety. My pace was near frantic. The tackle box swung violently back and forth. Its momentum forcing me in a zig-zag pattern - left to right, while my fishing pole hissed right to left.
The rattling provided a noise scent. The mean dog could have been half deaf and tracked the din I was leaving behind. I kept looking back. I had no wish to see the fangs and mighty jaws that would soon rip chunks from my backside, but I couldn’t help myself. Soon it was at my heels. The fence was just a head, but not close enough. Should I drop the box or turn and throw it at him? Maybe that would give me time to escape? I elected the diplomatic approach. I turned and said, “Nice doggie, nice doggie.” This was stated in a tone that was more pleading than friendly. It was then that I realized it was not the mean dog, but an old friendly one that had come out to greet us.
GO TO: Painting the house for a fishing trip.
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