Country Living, Boars and Dogs

Henry’s cotton laden long sleeved shirt melted into his frame as he heaved yet another crate up into his 1952 Chevy pickup.  A hand-me-down truck from his dad, who had recently passed, brought him both fond memories and a realization that we all will someday succumb to the final moment.  Why only last week he and Jon had to walk the embarrassing walk of two men whose truck had decided to quit right in the middle of town.  Luckily for them, 3 pm in Biloxi didn’t mean much traffic in 1962. 

“Get your butt down here boy!” He loved his son, Jonathan, even though his wife, Melissa, managed to convince him oh some 8 years ago, that a name like Jonathan wouldn’t cause too much trouble for the boy at school; none likely except for the day-to-day walloping he got from the Fletcher boys.  Those hayseeds grew more and more despicable each day they shared this earth and he was convinced sooner or later they’d end up behind bars.

Jonathan leaped off the back of the truck bed and proceeded to help his dad pick up the fallen crates of melons destined for some fine market up north where they would be sold for some ridiculous price, much more than he or his friends would ever pay for a “melon”.

Just as they were inching up the final crate and securing the bungee cord, a chorus of rapid, repeating, ear-splitting, howling, growling hound dogs bounced by in an old split oak pickup, stacked six deep in crates meant for not more than one grown or two pups.  “Where they going with all them dogs dad?” Jon wanted to know.  “Most likely over to the Hanson place, where they’ll set em loose on a rogue fox or two.  Might even send em after a wild pig.  Whew, pig sure does sound like something I could eat right now.  How about you boy, you hungry?”

“Dad I’d rather go follow that truck and watch em chase pig.  Sounds like fun.”   “Well, I’m not sure your momma would be much happy with me if I was to set you down watching those dogs track, corner and kill that ol pig.  Can get mighty bloody and stuff.”

“Dad I want to go!  Please!”  

“Tell you what Jon, you help me tidy up these crates, and we’ll swing by Sadie’s deli and grab us some sandwiches and head on out to the Hanson’s to see what’s up.  That suit you fine?”   Great Dad!”

Thirty minutes later Jonathan and his dad were busy eating their fried bologna and cheese sandwiches while hanging by one leg on the Hanson corral fence.  Inside were six ranch hands, two ol timers and a bunch of men standing about with long, black, aprons and huge, jagged knives.   “Look Jon, here they come!”.

Staggering up the north hill, panting and heaving with crushing gasps a 100+ lb hairy, wild boar followed by an even dozen driven, charged hound dogs entered its final chapter.  As the pig drew nearer to the corral its glazed eyes sought escape – first right then left – but when one of the ranch hands swung open the gate, in it flew believing if it made it to the other end it would somehow find freedom from the menacing, noisy pack.

Jonathan dropped what remained of his sandwich as his hands sought a tight grip on the top rail that held him.  Look Dad!  They’ve got him!    Faster than the average eye coulda made some sense of it a bellow of terror, pain and torture stabbed its way out of the boar as he slipped and fell into the corner of the pen, staggering, weaving, spinning wildly to stop the bites, stop the barking, stop the rapid snaps on his ears, tail, legs, jaw.  He managed to get a tusk into the vulnerable part of the neck of one huge black and white hound while swinging him clear across the corral into a pile of red well worn and rusted buckets.  The dog whimpered and clawed the ground attempting to get up, but after several moments lay still, life slowly seeping across the hay strewn bloody corner where he lay.  Meanwhile the boar was losing the battle for life but winning the war on the dogs, managing somehow to draw strength and determination to continue to gorge, bite and savagely shake any portion of dog he would mouth. 

Jonathan’s eyes, marbleized with fear, shock and simple terror clutched his dad’s sleeve trying to hide his face in his dad armpit.   The tortured yelps, crys and dying bays of 12 slaughtered dogs couldn’t move the farmers to act.  They too stood in awe at the boar’s power, even in death.

Dust hung in the air, a few remaining whimpers, a series of swift shots ended the boar’s life, and then routinely, in a rhythmic pattern the dogs were put to rest.  No one looked into eyes, no one said much, except “Let’s clean up this mess and get those dogs out of that area before we have to spend more time covering up the mess with that good hay we intend to use for the cattle next week.   Gathering burlap sacks, the farmers routinely went to their task, tossing dogs and dog parts into each until finally all that remained was the boar.

“Hey Jon” called Fred Hanson, how about you help me cut up this here pig and we’ll cook us up some pork sandwiches.  Jonathan pulled his eyes briefly from his dad’s sleeve, tears brimming over, dripping slowly down his cheeks.  “Daddy, how could they do that, daddy.  Why?”