The Dog Bite

                                                 

 
         In September, 1951, we arrived in Lamar, Arkansas two days after we'd left Arizona.  Mom took the front door key to our new home out of her purse and unlocked the door.  Two hours later we had moved every thing from the car into the house.
"The moving van is scheduled to arrive tomorrow with the rest of our stuff, so, tonight we'll have to make do with blankets and pillows and whatever we can find for padding," dad said.  "Josh, tomorrow your mom's going to enroll you into Camp Vernon Elementary.  You've already missed the first two weeks of school, you can't afford to miss more."
"But what about the moving van?"
"I'll take care of that; you're going to school."
         Mom began investigating the kitchen, turning knobs, checking the fridge and such to see what worked and what didn't.  Dad went out to the car to check its condition after the long drive, so I went out front to check the grounds within the fence.  The yard was huge with lots of interesting areas to play.  Dad had said there was a creek running through our property about two hundred yards away from the house.  I could see the tree line along the creek, but it was outside the fence and I knew I wouldn't be playing there without friends.  I walked along the fence inspecting it for splintered or torn away planks; there were none.  It was a fine fence.
         Mom served sandwiches and milk for dinner that night.  We sat on the hard wood floor of the living room and ate heartily.  We talked about our new life, about dad's new position, and about my new school.
         The next morning mom drove me to school.  It took about a half an hour to enroll me.  She kissed me on the cheek, said goodbye, and left.  A lady named Alice placed my eleven-year-old hand in hers and, without saying a word, guided me to my classroom like I was blind.  She stopped in front of door number four.  Alice opened the door and pushed me in.  The teacher and all the students turned in unison like some huge magnetic force had emanated from the doorway pulling at their heads. 
"Mrs. Markley, this is Joshua Ketterby; he's new to Camp Vernon,"  Alice said from the doorway.  She shoved me on in and shut the door behind me.  Suddenly, I was alone with one middle-aged woman and 25 pubescent faces staring at me.  I hated being the new kid.  I looked into the eyes of the students, looking for a reaction to the three-inch scar that ran down my cheek and under my chin.  One boy smirked.  A couple of girls whispered to each other, then giggled.  I searched for a kind face.  A dark-haired boy in the back row had friendly eyes and, after Mrs. Markley talked to me for a moment, I sat in the empty desk next to him.  He smiled, I didn't.
         At first recess he approached me.  He was tall for his age, like me, but he was dark and tan while I was blond with freckled, Irish skin.
"Hi Josh, my name's JoeBob."  He said.  "Are you from around here?"
"No.  My mom and dad and I just moved here yesterday."
"Where do you live?"  He asked.
"It's a farm with a big white house and a picket fence.  It's off Lincoln Street."  I said. 
"I know which house you're talking about.  That's the Parlavane farm.  Old man Parlavane's wife died last spring; I guess he sold out."  JoeBob said.  "You have a real nice creek going through your property.  I used to sneak a swim in it every chance I got and I never got caught once."
"Why did you go there to swim?"
"Because my Grandpa owns the farm next to yours.  I live with him and my Grandma.  We don't have a natural creek on our property; we get irrigated water."
"Oh."  I said.  I didn't know what irrigated meant, nor did I ask.
How'd you get that scar, anyway?"  JoeBob asked.
I knew he'd ask.  I hesitated a moment, looking into his eyes to see if there was any meanness or mischief intended; I couldn't see any.
"A dog attacked me when I was a kid.  It used to be bigger,"  I said as my left hand automatically went to the scarred tissue.  "But part of it went away."
"You mean he bit you in the face?"
"Yeah.  There, and a couple of other places, too."  I said.
"Wow, you're lucky he didn't kill you!"
         I began to get queasy.  Discussing the attack was something I didn't want to do; it was still too fearful to think about, but JoeBob was a nice kid and I didn't want to be rude.  He must have recognized my uneasiness because he changed the subject immediately.
"Well, now that we're neighbors, we could walk to school together, if you want."  He said.
"Okay."  I said.
         We continued talking about our families and the things we liked to do and, as the bell rang to line up for class, I realized I had made my first friend at Camp Vernon Elementary.
         Mom came to pick me up after school and I introduced her to my new friend, then I asked her if I could walk home with him.  She smiled and said yes, and mentioned she would have some cookies and milk waiting for us when we got there.
"My dad's not a farmer,"  I said to JoeBob as we walked.  "He's a salesman."
"Oh.  I don't think my Grandpa is going to like that, but he's a grumpy, mean-hearted, old man anyway."
         JoeBob told me about his grandparents.  I asked about his mother and father, but his response was vague.  He had never met his dad and his grandfather wouldn't allow his mother's name to be spoken in his house.
"Her name is Abigail."  He said proudly.
         JoeBob showed me a shortcut across a half mile, flat stretch of land.
"There's a story that squatters used to live on this land, but it's not been used for years.  Look ahead.  Do you see that tractor near the middle?"  He asked.
"Yeah."  I said.  It was a huge, rusty, yellow tractor with a cab.
"C'mon."  He said.  We ran over to the tractor.  The tires were ripped and torn and weathered by years of exposure.  With careful attention to the possibility of falling, I followed JoeBob's climb into the cab of the tractor.  It seemed like we were 10 to 15 feet above the ground as I looked around in all directions.  Everything was rusted and broken in the cab, there were no handles on the doors, and the overhead canopy had holes all through it.  It was a mystery why the tractor had been abandoned in the middle of the field.
"I think it was dragged out to the middle by the local farmers to warn squatters to stay away."  JoeBob said. 
Maybe, but I didn't really care.  It was there and we could play on it whenever we wanted; that was all that mattered to me.
         We pretended to be farmers plowing for a while, then we continued on our way home.  JoeBob stopped off at my house long enough to have some cookies and milk and to compliment my mom for her baking, then he said he had to go or his grandfather would "tan his hide."
         The next few days were some of the finest I can remember.  I had a best friend who walked to and from school with me (I didn't want to walk alone) and enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed his.  He introduced me to a couple of his friends; they didn't mind the scar.  We played Dodge Ball at recess.  I liked Dodge Ball and I was good at it, but it made me thirsty.  JoeBob pointed me toward the water fountain on the edge of the playground, near the swings.
         I invited all my new friends over that Saturday for a swim in the creek.  It was a hot day, the water was cool, and the trees provided exceptional shade.  We began talking about animals while we lay on the slanted, grassy bank, and the subject of fearing dogs came up.
" I ain't never heard of a dog harming a person, except to protect itself."  Said one.
"I've had a dog all my life."  Said another.
         I diverted the subject to sports; I didn't like talking about dogs.  My dad joined us a little later.  I introduced him to everyone.  He swam and talked with us for a while, then went back to the house.
"I like your friends, Josh."  Dad told me at supper that night.  "Especially JoeBob, he seems like a real friend."
"He is, dad."  I said.
         One day, JoeBob and I were walking home across the squatters' land when we spotted a dog approaching from about a quarter mile away.  I started to run, but JoeBob grabbed me.
"Don't try to run home.  It'll catch you in no time."
"What do we do?"  I asked.
"The tractor."  He said.  "It's the only thing nearby that'll protect us.  C'mon."
         We ran to the tractor and climbed up into the cab.  The dog was only about a hundred yards from us now; it looked like a black Labrador.  As it approached there was something strange in its movement.  Its gait was steady, but not rushed.  It paced toward us with its head hung down and unmoving.  As it came closer we could see a frothy, white coating around its mouth.
"It's a mad dog!"  JoeBob yelled.  "Get down and stay quiet!"
         We both skittered down onto the dirty, rusty floorboard of the tractor.  I had heard about rabid dogs, how their bite could make a human insane and die a horrible death.  Suddenly, my mouth had a copper taste in it and the hair on the nape of my neck stood up.  My brain began flashing images of a dark dog with huge, sharp fangs chomping on my head and shoulders, tearing at my flesh.  I became overwhelmed with fear and my body began to tremble.  JoeBob placed a hand on my shoulder.
"It'll be okay."  He whispered.  "He can't get in here.  I won't leave you."
         His calmness and bravery had a direct effect on me; the trembling stopped.  Then there was frantic scratching against the metal, first on one side of the tractor, then the other.  There was loud, desperate, panting mixed with varied grunts and growls as the dog clawed and clawed.  The rabid dog made several attempts to get to us, but the cab was too high.  All of a sudden, it was quiet.  I didn't want to move.  For another fifteen minutes neither of us moved an inch, then, slowly, JoeBob peered over the cab door.  The dog was gone.  We looked around in every direction for as far as we could see, but he was gone.
"My Grandpa said a mad dog doesn't have the patience to wait out its prey.  I guess he was right."  JoeBob said.
         We continued our walk home, both of us with eyes and ears set to firm attention.  I jumped at every thing that moved, but there was no sign of the dog. 
"How could you stay so brave during that?"  I asked JoeBob as we entered my yard.
"Well, Ole man Odem, one of the PE teachers, said:  ‘The bravest thing a person can do is to act brave when he's not.'  I guess I believed him."  He said.  Then he smiled.  "Wasn't much I could do about the situation, anyhow."
         That night, after the explaining to mom, after mom called dad and JoeBob's grandparents, and after the Sheriff came over, JoeBob and I ended up at a farmer's home to see if his dog was the one we had seen.  It was.  He'd reported her missing about two weeks earlier.
"Her name was Beauty."  The farmer said.  His tone was soft and tearful.  The den room we were in must of had 30 or more pictures of Beauty.  Trophies of various sizes from dog shows and competitions adorned numerous wall shelves and a desk. 
"I've hated dogs for most of my life because of what one dog did to me."  I said to JoeBob.  "I never thought a person could love a dog as much as this farmer loves his."
"She was bit by a raccoon that was trying to attack me."  The farmer said.  "She jumped between us.  I shot the raccoon with my gun and realized by its strange behavior that it must have been rabid.  I called the Vet to come out and check the carcass for rabies; he confirmed what I had thought."
         The farmer picked up a photo of Beauty from the desk.  His fingers caressed it like he was stroking her head.  Tears appeared in his eyes.
"I couldn't bring myself to kill her even though I knew it was the best thing for her.  I tied her up in the barn, but she chewed her way through the rope that night.  She was gone when I went to check on her the next morning."  He looked at us.  "I'm sorry, boys." 
         He quickly left the room, taking the picture of Beauty with him.  I took a closer look at the photos of the black Lab that had tried to attack my friend and I earlier that day.  She was a beautiful dog, her fur finely combed and a spirit of liveliness in her eyes, not the dull, unblinking stare of a dangerous, crazed animal.  I felt bad for the farmer; I could feel his sorrow.  Then I realized I felt sad for Beauty, too.
         That night was a sleepless one.  I thought of what JoeBob had said about being brave and it made sense to me.  I thought of Beauty's bravery, sacrificing herself for her master.  Visions of the dark dog with the sharp, ripping fangs slipped into my thoughts, but my fear had subsided.  I remembered the chain attached to the dog's neck, the red, kick ball that had errantly flown into the yard, and the broken planks in the wood fence that had allowed my access into that yard.  He was a mean, vicious dog, but I had made the mistake of entering his domain.  I had judged all dogs by this one.  I saw the farmer's tears, heard the quiver in his voice.  I imagined Beauty running, jumping, dashing about with carefully combed, shiny fur, her eyes flashing with joy and intelligence and I knew I had been wrong.
         "Who has a dog for a pet around here?"  I asked JoeBob the next morning as we walked to school.
"Well, Marvin Malloy's on the way to school and he has a collie named Bessie."
"I want to go by there, okay?"
         JoeBob gave me a curious look, but kept quiet.  Marvin was just leaving for school when we got there and his dog was standing in the doorway next to him.  Their yard wasn't fenced, but I didn't care.  I was determined to challenge my fear. 
"Hey, Marvin."  We both said as we walked up.
"Can I pet your dog?"  I asked.
"Okay, go ahead."  Marvin said with a puzzled look.
         Slowly, I stretched out my hand and placed it on Bessie's head.  Her fur was soft and silky, the hair clean and long.  It was the first time that I could remember ever touching a dog.  I began to stroke her head and she moved next to me, twisting her body and rubbing herself against my legs in a friendly manner while wagging her tail.
"She likes you."  Marvin said.
         Marvin went to school with us that morning.  I asked him if I could come over to see Bessie sometime and he said sure.  In class, I asked the other students if they owned dogs, about half said they did.
"Do you love your dogs?"  I asked.
"That's a silly question."  A girl said.  "Of course we do."
         After eating lunch, JoeBob and I joined others in a Dodge Ball game.  I didn't play very well, I had too much on my mind.  I got thirsty and ran to the fountain to get a drink.  As I was drinking, people began to scream and run toward the buildings, yelling  "Mad dog, mad dog!" 
         I turned to see Beauty leaping towards me.  She knocked me into the fountain, then to the ground as I felt her body land on me.  Her teeth sank into my left arm as she pawed at my chest, tearing my shirt and scratching my skin with her nails.  She bit me in the side, my blood mixing with the white froth around her mouth.  Suddenly, she was moving off of me, looking for further prey.  A mad dog had bitten me, had drawn blood . . . I was going to die.  I threw myself onto her, wrapping my arms around her hind legs.  She turned and bit me again, but I pulled her down.  She continued biting while trying to struggle free, but I stayed with her.  She snapped at my leg; I moved and threw my arms around her neck.  Quickly, I stood up, pulling her up with me, her flailing legs pointing outward from me.  At full height, I stood tall enough that her hind legs couldn't reach the ground.  I squeezed her neck as tight as I could.
"It's okay, girl."  I said as she continued to kick.  "It's not your fault, you're a good dog."
         She quit struggling after a while, and went limp.  People began to approach me, JoeBob in the lead.  With my arms still around Beauty's neck, I lowered myself to the ground and lay next to her body, and then I fainted.
"You mean I'm not going to die?"  I asked the Doctor.  He had treated the bites and scratches.
"You have some wounds to take care of, so no athletics for a while, but no, Joshua, you're not going to die.  We have a vaccine for Rabies.  When applied early enough, a full recovery can be expected."  He said.  "I will tell you the shots are painful and you must take them daily for three weeks, but you'll be fine afterwards."
         Those were the most painful three weeks of my life, getting a shot in my belly each day with a needle that looked long enough to pierce my torso from front to back.
  When I returned to Camp Vernon Elementary, everyone called me a hero.  They threw me a party and I probably had more friends that year than any before or since, with JoeBob remaining my best friend.  My father and mother were proud of my bravery, but told me not to do that again, as if I had a choice. 
For Christmas, my parents got me a Golden Retriever puppy.  I named her Calamity, cause she got into everything.  We were the best of friends for many, many years.