I found her, an older beagle mix, but more white than brown or black, lying in the ditch next to the dirt road. I was about ten at the time, so almost half a century ago. I don’t know the road’s name, but I do know it turned North off Stripling Chapel Road and ran for about a quarter of a mile before ending in a thick copse of red oaks. My Aunt Eunice and Uncle Benjamin lived down a rough dirt and rock driveway in a rough and sagging house in those oaks.
I knew the beagle was a female because her teats were long and dark from being suckled by many litters. I had seen her before in the road and in the red and washed-out yards of the poor black families that lived on that nameless path. All their dogs and the children were gaunt, almost equally so. The children stared at me when I walked by, but they never said anything. Well, one little boy, maybe four or five, did call me a “cracka,” and throw a handful of pea gravel at me one time. His throw came up a bit short, and he turned and ran away and joined the other older kids who laughed at his effort.
I was clear on what had happened. The beagle had gone to the blacktop, maybe looking for something to eat, and had been struck by a passing car. The exposed roots and washed-out ruts made the nameless road a slow medium for travel and thus safe for both animals and children. In contrast, the cars on Stripling Chapel were a menace.
A small stream of blood ran from her nostril, and though the November climate was crisp and breezy, she panted as if burning up in the August sun. I reached to stroke the small heart-shaped patch of dark fur on her head, and she snapped at me, not particularly viciously but sufficiently to make me withdraw my hand and take a step back. I reached towards her again. She growled. I could hear a wet gurgle in the raspy snarl. I recalled my grandfather making a similarly wet gurgle not long before the adults made the children leave the room.
I decided to leave her in the ditch.
I walked back to my uncle’s house. I told him about the beagle. He informed me that even sweet dogs will bite you if they are hurt badly enough. Uncle Benjamin was old, very old. He leaned far forward when he walked, his legs as stiff and straight as planed lumber. Rheums and agues plagued his dotage. His hands shook so badly that very little of Eunice’s tomato soup made the journey from his bowl to his mouth.
He agreed to walk with me to see the dog. Before we left, he reached under his sagging living room chair and produced a small black Iver Johnson revolver with ivory grips. Eunice brought a ragged string quilt and handed it to me. I don’t think either item made sense to me at the time. I understood that Uncle Benjamin usually concealed the revolver somewhere in his faded Duck-Head overalls. The purpose of the quilt was less clear.
Uncle Benjamin walked so slowly that it must have taken us twenty minutes to make it up the driveway and the road to the broken beagle. I’m not sure what I expected my uncle to do. I knew that a dog that seemed unable to move most of its body was pretty badly hurt.
Uncle Benjamin reached down and stroked her head. She didn’t offer to bite him. She didn’t even growl. I guess she had lost the strength or the will. As a general rule, I hate personification, but the dog’s eyes seemed to be pleading for help. Benjamin told her, “girl, yo back’s broke, ain’t nothing I can do for ya.”
He then pulled the Iver Johnson from his pocket and aimed carefully. His hands, for once, were completely steady. I turned my head when the shot rang out. I waited for a few seconds before I looked back. When I did, she was still, no more ragged breaths.
I took the string quilt and wrapped her in it. I picked her up and we took her to one of the houses where the black kids played in the yard. They watched in silence. I laid her on the sagging wood porch. The oldest of the boys, maybe thirteen or fourteen, walked up, opened the quilt, and looked at her. I said, “we didn’t have no choice; her back’s broke.”
By now the other kids had circled us. The bigger boy’s eyes welled up with tears. Some of the others cried openly. He said, “thank y’all for taking care of her.”
My uncle and I walked back to the road. I stopped and looked back. The bigger boy was carrying the dog away, toward the woods. The smaller children followed behind. One was dragging a shovel.
Alan Caldwell has been teaching since 1994 but only began submitting writing in May. He has since been published in Southern Gothic Creations, Level: Deepsouth, oc87 Recovery Diaries, Black Poppy Review, The Backwoodsman, You Might Need To Hear This, The Chamber, Biostories, Heartwood Literary Journal, and American Diversity Report.
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