Diseased Relationships

King was a half-shepherd, half-collie mix I’d raised from a pup. He was my constant companion, following me for miles as I rode my bike throughout the rural landscape of Whorton’s Bend, in Etowah County, Alabama. Back then, it was nothing for kids to be gone for hours on their bikes or on foot, just so you were “home by dark.”

On those occasions when I abandoned my bike and crossed fences “to see what was on the other side,” King led the way. I was Canadian Mounty Sgt. Preston patrolling the wilds with my faithful dog Yukon King in search of renegades and outlaws.

I was about thirteen years old one summer when my family was gathered at the supper table enjoying one of the few meals Mama would give Daddy free rein to make: beef stew and cornbread. Before the cornbread was completely done, he’d take that cast iron skillet out of the oven and flip the bread.

As we sat there eating, Daddy told me one of our neighbor’s had seen some dogs running in a pack and King was with them.

Immediately, I jump to my dog’s defense. “Not King! He never runs off without me.”

Instead of looking at me, Daddy was focused on mashing butter and molasses together with a fork so he could put it on a piece of cornbread.

Keeping his voice even, he said, “Just the same, you better keep an eye on him.”

That meant the discussion was over.

“Yes sir, I will,” I promised. I didn’t have to use the word “promise,” because when you told daddy you were going to do something, you did it or there’d be consequences.

A couple of weeks later, Daddy leveled a more serious accusation at King. “Mr. Kilgore said a bunch of dogs killed some of his chickens. He said King was one of them.”

“That can’t be,” I exclaimed. “I’ve never seen King kill anything except grasshoppers he catches or an occasional rabbit. Maybe it’s a dog that just looks like King.”

“Once a dog starts killing,” Daddy told me, “there’s no stopping them. They get a taste of blood, and it makes ‘em crazy. I’ve seen it before.”

Something in daddy’s calm manner and serious tone scared me. A knot formed in my throat and tears filled my eyes.

“No. No. It’s not King daddy! I know him. He’s not like that.”

Without changing his tone or demeanor, Daddy said, “If it does turn out to be King, there’s only one way to fix it. And I think you know what I mean.”

Terror raced through me, making every nerve tingle.

Frantic, I said, “I’ll keep a really close watch on him!”

“O.K. for now,” Daddy replied. “But I’ve warned you.”

The unspoken threat in the air was that King would have to be put down.

After supper I went outside and found King.

Kneeling in front of him and gripping the sides of his face, I looked into his dark eyes. “Listen King, you better not be running around killing things. You’re going to get in real trouble.”

My voice choked off, and I wrapped my arms around his neck and squeezed. He responded by licking the back of my head... The remainder of the story will pick up in next week’s edition.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume I1: The Hairy Catfish Caper.