My Dog, Tail

One summer night, I packed my bed,
And struck out along the trail.
The moon was full, I took some food,
And my dog, we called him Tail.

We named him Tail for reasons,
He didn’t have very much,
But what he had, he treasured;
He’d growl, if a stranger touched.

He got in front of the mowing machine,
While dad was cutting the hay.
Before he knew what had happened,
Dad cut his tail away.

But we traveled good together,
My dog, Tail, and I.
Mother never knew where we headed,
‘Twas; “See you, Mom, Goodbye.”

She never seemed to worry,
When the two of us were gone.
I guess she had it figured,
We’d get hungry, before too long.

This night we traveled rather late,
We stopped, to sleep, at eleven.
We broke some fern, laid out the bed,
Intending to sleep, till seven.

Sometime, along in the dark of the night,
The moon had settled down,
My dog, Tail, began to shiver and shake;
I arose and looked around.

As then I scented the awful smell,
That dead animals leave around,
When a bear would find a carcass,
He would roll it in the ground.

I gathered up my flashlight,
My trusty rifle too.
I didn’t want to kill a bear,
But it was him or me. Wouldn’t you?

Well, he was a great big fellow,
Standing erect on his hind legs.
You’ve probably seen them in the circus,
The same way they sit up and beg.

Well, I flashed my light, across his eyes,
And fired my gun in the air.
I guess I caught him by surprise,
For he let out a growl, and got out of there.

Next morning, I stepped down to a little creek,
To get some coffee water.
I left my gun with my dog, Tail,
To pack it was such a bother.

When I looked back towards my camp,
Between me, and my dog, and gun,
There stood a big old panther cat.
I didn’t dare to run.

My dad had often lectured us,
If we met a panther cat,
To never run and run away,
We must never, never do that.

He said to get down, on all fours,
And bark just like a dog.
Well, I barked and snorted and made a fuss,
Even grunted like a hog.

My dog, Tail, heard my commotion,
And ran the panther away.
Well, I didn’t know how to bark like a dog,
But I sure did learn fast, that day.

*****

No lie, I would have screamed and wet my pants; I blame it on my upbringing (but I'm probably just a big wuss). I've never been hunting, camping was often in my own back yard, and the only "wild" animals I've really ever had contact with are birds and squirrels. To just go off in the woods with a dog and a gun? I would have starved to death in the first two hours.

Even if this never really happened in Grandpa Don's life, it very easily could have. The man was a man's man, man. Maybe that's why we didn't really connect growing up. His hobbies included word working, hunting, fishing, and so on. I would list my hobbies as a kid as playing video games, pretending I'm in a video game, thinking up ideas for new video games, and pretending I'm in a video game I thought up (somethings haven't changed).

We did share at least one common interest, however: flat tops. In my early elementary school years I would always get a flat top (in case you're wondering, my twin brother Paul would get a side spike--basically parting your hair to one side and spiking up the hair around the part). For as long as I knew him, Grandpa Don always, always sported a flat top. Although, more often than not the sides would collapse in leaving only a high ridge in the middle. In modern parlance we might call it a "faux-hawk."

One time Grandpa Don took me to his barber and we got grandpa/grandson matching haircuts. When I got home, my family all called me Grandpa Don. It was short, a lot shorter than I was used to. It was almost military looking. Looking back, it may have hurt Grandpa Don's feelings and I feel bad if it did, but the short length and initial teasing made that the last flat top I ever had. Maybe I should try it again. I wonder what my wife would say.

She said no.