Dog Gone

[Jimway]

The boy racers from down the lane have been decellerating down the street in front of my place which usually ends up with a loud and resonating backfire from the offending vehicle. This backfire suddinly reminded me of a time long ago. Back in the days of my youth, or yute, as the east coast guys might say, There wasn't a lot of myriad opportunity to collect dollars. One was pretty much limited to lawn mowing and paper delivery. I was lucky to moonlight at my Grand Fathers garage, performing tuneups, tire changes, brakes, clutches, the odd electrical repair, you know, pretty routine stuff for a ten year old. I must admit here that I was somewhat lazy, having only three jobs (remember the Jamaicans on 'In Living Color' when the lady holds up her five year old and Damon Wayons asks her 'How many job does he have?) The Garage thing was going well if we don't count the can of beer (Colt 45) me and grandpa were downing in front of the other mechanics when my Mother pulled up to take me home. The mowing routine was also going well. My only problem was the paper route thing. I was running three routes. Every thing was great until Satan moved in. Run in after run in with him had instilled a deep fear and incredible sense of foreboding when I had to go down his street. Repeated attempts to procure some help against Satan were utterly unsuccessful. I was left solitary and alone, on my own. After the very first chance meeting with Satan, the hair around my ears turned white. After a year or so of battling the power of darkness, you might begin to imagine that things were pretty bleak indeed. Perhaps some of you have delivered papers in the past. Oh the feel and smell of newsprint. Oh the incredible weight of the Sunday edition and all of it's sales inserts.

 

[nathan]

I'm in

 

[Jimway]

The newspaper publisher had indicated that sizable profits could be realized from engaging in newspaper delivery. "Your own small Business" as he stated it. You will get and remain healthy while learning to run your own business and build, fortify, and improve your character. What they forgot to mention was all of the ways that the customers would try to beat you out of your profits. I suspect that the members of each street would meet up at the various paper boxes as soon as I was out of sight and discuss the latest schemes in fashion to defraud the paper carrier. One of the standby schemes was to simply move out in the middle of the night, no doubt right after getting and reading the last paper that you would deliver. It was also mentioned, in passing, that no positive improvement had been detected in the character department either, even after several years of delivery. Satan, I should mention here, was the name of the dog. He was about the size of a 1200 pound mule that resembled a German Shepard. He had the disposition of a sow Grizzly with a toothache crossed with a starving hyena with a mouth like a 300 horsepower chainsaw. He would stalk his prey (Me), and strike from almost any where, with a distinct resemblance of the Tasmanian Devil as soon as he made contact with either newsprint, clothing, shoes, boots, skin, feet, arms, legs, sticks, stones, bricks, blocks, pipes, lumber, bicycles, a Honda 90, and even a cattle prod.

 

[Jimway]

My first meeting with Satan occurred shortly after he moved in. As I walked past the residence, I peered apprehensively through the lodgepole pines at a structure that resembled a small tractor shed. It said 'Satan' above the door. Those weren't lodgepole pines that I was peering through. Those were Satans legs, as he towered above me, nothing but a chain link fence between him and me. Just to show off, he did a very good job of chewing through it. I placed my hands together in prayer and tiptoed backwards, eyes closed, rather quickly. It wasn't long before we were trading insults back and forth. Right after that, it was hand to hand combat. He was a formidable foe. One of the most maddening traits was his complete obedience and timidity whenever his owner was present. She bore a striking resemblence to my neighbor, the one I call The Test Pilot From The Broom Factory. I would not be surprised to find that they are Mother/ Daughter (or is that Mutha?). Satan would sit there and look at her all the while that she would tell everyone how well behaved he is. Indeed, over the couple of years that followed, whenever I would complain to any one who would listen, invariably, when we would go to Satans owner, he would sit there quiet as could be. He even let the Animal Control Officer pet him on the head. I couldn't hardly believe what I was seeing. While the Officer was patting Satans head, Satan looked right at me and licked his chops. It was right then that I knew that there was going to be a reckoning someday. In the weeks that stretched into months, I endured attack after attack. There was torn clothing and even a couple of sutures involved. My hair turned grey. My face twitched. My hands shook. The escape springs in my legs were wound up so tight, a mere cough from an ant could levitate me from the ground to the nearest car. An attack could come from anywhere. I wasn't sure if Satan was on my right, left, behind, in front, above, or below, whenever I walked down his street. Often, it was all of the above. The neighbors became sympathetic to my plight after all of the cats in the neighborhood disappeared. Their complaints fell upon deaf ears also. One early Sunday morning found me squared off against Satan in the vacant lot that separated his yard from the next neighbors yard.

 

[Jimway]

I was feeling pretty cocky, cattle prod in hand. I had passed by Satans house and was crossing the vacant lot. The next house across the vacant lot had a large picture window that one could see their reflection in. Satan would often sneak up from out of nowhere but if you kept a weather eye out, you could see him sneaking up from behind you at approximately the speed of one of those newer Pulsares with a 300 hung off of the stern. A cattle prod is a stick like instrument kind of like a plastic tube a couple of feet long that emits a strong electric shock when used. It has an operator button on your side and a set of contacts on the other, from which the electric shock can be administered to a cow, which often can be described as a lot of trouble wrapped up into a big leather bag. Back in the day, a prod was any type of stick used to move cows around, but the term 'Hot Stick' was used for the electrified version that puts out a high voltage but low amperage electric shock. The precurser of the stun gun that the militarized culture of escalation folks employ nowadays. Well whom should I spy coming up fast from the six o clock position but Satan himself. I often had just enough time to pull out a rolled up newspaper to hold it up between Satans fangs and myself during one of these meetings. This time I pulled the prod and wheeled around to face the onslaught. Just in time to have old Satan grab it into his mouth. I think most of us have seen a puppy take a sock or rag in their mouth and shake their head back and forth at speeds that make their head and the sock or rag look like a blur. This was one of Satans techniques also, particularly if he could get a newspaper, foot, or hand into that mouth of his. As he grabbed up the stick in his mouth, I pushed the operating button with authority. I imagine that I had a look somewhat similiar to the Grinch as an evil smile spread clear across my face. Usually, after the mouth of Satan clamped down on some part of you, time would warp for you and Satan to such an extent that you would be locked in battle for the better part of ten minutes as you were drug around the vacant lot five or six complete times, ricocheting off of three pine trees, a boulder, a chain link fence, a barbed wire fence, and the remains of 63 GMC pickup. A bystander would not be caught up in the time warp, so the battle with the power of darkness would only seem to last a few seconds to their eyes. The growling, grunting, snarling, teeth gnashing primordial sounds were enough to make the blood run cold. Satan was even louder.

 

[Jimway]

I extended my right arm and pointed the cattle prod at Satan. He clamped down incredibly hard. I pushed the operating button. The electric shock somehow infused Satan with even more strength. We fought three complete circuits around the vacant lot, he, infused with super strength, me, infused with cold terror. As I scaled the cab of the derelict GMC pickup, Satan sunk his ample teeth into my leg. It hurt a little. Right there, standing atop the old rusted hulk, blood dripping down my leg, my thoughts turned black as I would strike Satan in the head again and again as he would lunge toward my elevated position. We parried and dodged this way and that until the neighbor that lived across the vacant lot from Satan created a backfire from his motorcycle as he tried to start it. He often would be leaving for work as I delivered his paper. Satan struck out for home the minute that he heard the sound. A small light bulb of an idea began to faintly flicker. Later on, when evening came and darkness tightened it's grip on the outdoors, I was nestled into my easy chair, covered with blankets, with some caramel popcorn, rubbing my sore leg. A little show called Nightmare Theater came on at 11 pm. This evening showcased the Werewolf who, by the way, bore a more than striking resemblance to you know who. At the height of the movie, the protagonist, a rather attractive, intelligent, fearless type, who had consulted with a couple of old French guys, a band of Gypsies, and a Witch Doctress, pulled out a sweet little hand gun and dispatched the antagonist with a silver projectile. The idea light suddenly came up to full intensity.

 

[Jimway]

I began to build the gun the very next day. Procuring a ready built one would have been much easier than trying to manufacture one but back in the day, Parents, Teachers, Neighbors, and Officials of all kinds thought unkindly of the idea of handguns and kids. A rifle would be pretty handy, fairly effective, but pretty obvious from a concealment perspective. What I needed was one of those small derringer types. On the Western Channel many an evening, the Gambler, seated at his card table would flick a derringer from his right sleeve if things got hot and heavy. I was going to be that guy when things got hot and heavy with Satan. The Gambler had him a knife stashed away in his boot for backup, so I began to build a custom one of those also, built on a scale to conceal in a pair of High Top Keds Sneakers. I drilled a hole into a chunk of 1 inch prybar about 6 inches long. I decided to go black powder, in that it was easier to come up with a nipple to thread into the barrel, a percussian cap, and fashioning a trigger to fire the contraption, instead of coming up with a firing pin. I carved up a piece of black walnut for a handle. I filed and polished and stained and rubbed, sustained by the thought of dispatching Satan with a mere pull of a trigger. I named it the Equalizer and carved a circle with an E from a Chevrolet, placed in the center of the grip. The gun looks kind of like a small flintlock from a pirate movie. It is sleek and polished, no bluing, maybe eight inches in length, nothing sticking up like sights or anything like that, only the arm that contacts the percussian cap when the trigger is pulled. You can see the lead ball shoved to the end of the barrel if you look at the business end of the thing when it is loaded. From the dangerous end, you just sight down the right side of the 6 inch barrel just past the nipple that sticks up , and pull the trigger when Satans head fills up the rest of the picture in your minds eye. A smart fellow probably would have test fired the rig from a considerable distance by using a string of some sort, tied to the trigger. In the expediency of youth, compounded by the anxiousness of the whole situation, twice multiplied by fear, revenge, and carry the cocky attitude, I didn't give it a thought.

 

[Jimway]

I was ready to dispatch Satan. I loaded black powder into the barrel of the Equalizer followed by a small patch of cotton with grease on it wrapped around a lead ball made from melting down some old fishing weights. This was shoved down to the bottom of the barrel. All that was left to do was pull the trigger arm back and fit a percussian cap to the nipple. This, I did for morning after morning. At the end of the route, I would remove the percussion cap and put the trigger arm down, thereby safetying the Equalizer. Satan was biding his time apparently. Later, it was speculated by several unhappy neighbors, that Satan was successfully ridding the neighborhood of most of the feline population during this period. Another Sunday morning materialized and found me approaching Satan territory. It was early morning and quiet, very quiet. So quiet that one could hear one's heart beating. Back in the day, every one was asleep at two in the morning on a Sunday. There were no cars scurrying here and there down the streets. Everyone but you, Satan, and maybe a guy that was working the graveyard shift, was home in bed sawing Z's. There was a little chill in the early morning air as I pulled the hammer arm back on the Equalizer and placed the cap upon the firing nipple. I slid the Equalizer back into the paper bag, a canvass bag that a paper carrier wore around the neck. It has a compartment both ahead and astern, covered by a liftable flap of canvas. My pace slowed as I rounded the corner. Ahead lay Satans house on the right. Beyond that, across the vacant lot stood the next house, the house with the big picture window. The derilect remains of the 63 GMC pickup, covered in early morning dew, was faintly visible through a light fog that was slowly reaching down from above. I walked as if upon eggshells, trying to not make a sound. I took a couple of steps and froze. I looked to the left. I looked to the right. I only moved my eyes, leaving the rest of my body pointed straight toward the remains of the pickup. The escape springs were wound tight inside my legs, ready to propel me forward at the slightest provocation. I turned my head to the right so as to be able to hear both ahead and astern. I looked forward and backward and up and down. All was calm in the neighborhood. Inside me however, pulse, respiration, metabolism, blood pressure and imagination were at a fever pitch. Three streets over, snuggled in it's nest high up in a tree, a squirrel coughed while dreaming about walnuts. I made my way slowly past Satans house. I felt the handle of the Equalizer. As I slowly crept past the street light in front of the vacant lot, I sensed attack. My hand closed around the Equalizer. I looked at my reflection in the picture window of the house next to the vacant lot. I saw movement under the old 63 pickup that was now behind me. I pulled the Equalizer from the canvas paper bag and wheeled around to face the attacker. I stuck my right arm out at the ready. Satan was approaching like a flash, teeth bared, chops flared back, eyes rolled back into his head like a shark. The sound of the Equalizer, as it was related to me later, was deafening on that quiet Sunday morning. So loud in fact that more than one person in the neighborhood was knocked out of bed by the concussion. The report from the Equalizer echoed clear across town and back to the hills down south, several times. I couldn't hear a thing. Couldn't see a thing either through all of the smoke that had emitted from the Equalizer.

 

[Jimway]

I stood there, only long enough to see the smoke begin dissipate. I more than half expected Satan to lunge in through the smoke cloud and relieve me of some part of my attire, or worse. I shot a quick glance sideways. Bedroom lights in some of the neighboring homes were being flicked on. I imagined that curtains were going to start moving and doors were going to open up a crack and folks were going to see me standing there with the Equalizer, a small wisp of smoke still rising from that big hole in the muzzle. As I turned to begin my escape, I saw Satan lying there, head on his paws, chops curled back in a snarl, eyes looking up, frozen in time. I was filled with a new feeling of victory and an unexpected sense of sorrow. With Malice aforethought, I figured that I would walk away as if nothing had happened. Not too fast, not too slow. Cooley calculating that a noise like that just might bring about some unwanted and possibly embarrassing, read that ember ass ing, attention, I figured that I would plant the Equalizer, wrapped in a plastic bag, in the next yard, underneath a big rock in the rock wall that separated the next house from the vacant lot. The gentle man that lived at that address, Lewis, or Louie, as he was known to friends, was standing at the front door of his house, serious as a heart attack look on his face. Just before that, as I went to ditch the gun under the rockery, I had looked up and seen Louie in the big picture window, big smile on his face, cigar butt sticking out of his teeth, shaking his head no, and motioning toward the front door. "Giv me da gun" says Louie. He sticks out his hand and points his first two fingers at the ground and makes an impression of someone walking by moving his two fingers back and forth and slowly sweeping his hand toward the end of the street. "Dont say nuttin to da cops when they stops ya" he adds. Drat, I think to myself, my plan is beginning to unravel.

 

[Jimway]

I quickly folded a newspaper around the Equalizer and handed it to Lewis. He smiled, grabbed me by my shoulder for a moment and said, "Dog had it comin, good job". I traveled down the street, not looking back, ears ringing. I was only two streets down when the police car wheeled around the corner and rolled to a stop. Apparently, the report from the Equalizer was heard clear across town and it being a slow night, half the Police force descended upon the neighborhood. A couple of the town officers had a strange habit of coming my way whenever something out of the ordinary might occur. They would question me, at length, sometimes, concerning such occurrences. It took far less time for them to find Satan than I had calculated. Suspicion began to focus on me, uncomfortably. Finding me out at 2 in the morning in the vicinity of a strange occurance, piqued their interest. Finding me lawfully engaged in commercial enterprise caused some consternation. "I watch Perry Mason all the time and I aint gotta answer any of your questions", I coolly said. "Maybe it was a backfire?" I added. They asked me about Satan. "I hope that he gets run over by the truck that backfired" I stated. They told me that it looked like he might be suffering from some form of terminal lead poisoning, and did I have any knowledge. "I couldn't be that lucky" I said, then I quickly related how much I hated the dog and really had nothing but contempt and ill will for him. I showed them the bite mark scars on my leg. "Probably one of the neighbors" I added. A quick but thorough pat down dispelled some lingering suspicions. I was sent on my way. After some further checking around the neighborhood and realizing that Satan had been "persona non grata", and that fully half the population of the street was gleeful of the news of Satans passing, the whole affair evaporated soon after. When I went to louie's place to collect at the end of the Month, he handed me back the Equalizer. There was a crack in the barrel, might have used a bit too much powder?