A Friend For Life

    I was about 6 years old visiting a mean uncle when he used a bullwhip on his hunting dog. If I had been older, I would have put the whip to him. My best friend growing up was my dog and I don't understand how anyone can be cruel to animals. 

   That experience forms the basis for this short story. It also illustrates that no matter what you do for some people, they don't appreciate it. If you like it, follow me on Twitter and share this story with your friends.

A Friend For Life

The wiry old man in overalls cracked his bullwhip in the air. It sounded like a firecracker to the dog cowering under the car. He knew he would soon feel its sting.

      “Get out from under that car, you worthless hound, and take your whipping.”

      The dog never knew what he’d done to anger his master. He did everything he could to please him, but the beatings still came. He crawled to the right side of the undercarriage, hoping to avoid the worst of the whip.

      “You think you can hide, do you? Well I’ll show you.” He slung the long leather whip underneath the car, hitting the dog in the side. The dog yelped from the sharp pain and the man ran to the right side of the car to get a better shot. The dog scooted to the left side.

      The whip again struck the dog, and he moaned a pitiful sound. His body trembled in fear of his master, and he wondered how long this beating would last.

      All the neighbors knew the old man beat his dog regularly but did nothing to stop him. Yet, on this day a bow hunter emerged from the woods and saw the dog being mercilessly whipped.

      A wild hog also emerged from the wood that day, a deadly Arkansas Razorback. Excited by the sounds, the Razorback saw the man with the whip and charged him, knocking the old man on his back. The man held his hands in front to protect himself from the sharp tusks.

     Suddenly, the dog bolted out from under the car to save his master. Instinctively, the dog went for the throat of the tough Razorback; he bit as hard as he could but was weak from not being fed lately. The hog tossed him aside, barely glancing at the hound before returning to gore the old man.

      The dog had no thought for his own life; all he knew was to save his master. He growled as fiercely as a wolf and jumped on top of the Razorback, again sinking his teeth into its neck. The wild hog violently spun around, first one way, then the other, until the dog lost its grip. This time the wild hog went for the dog, ripping open the hound’s belly with its tusks. The dog knew it was a fight to the finish and he was losing.

      The bowhunter pulled an arrow from his quiver and let it loose into the flank of the Razorback. The razorback broke off the attack and fled; though it was a killing shot, the hog wouldn’t die until it bled out.

      He sprinted over to check on the man and the dog. “Are you okay?” he asked the man.

      “That hog gored me good, but I’ll be okay; might need you to bandage me though.”

      The bowhunter ignored his request: instead, he checked the lifeless dog. Blood seeped out his ripped abdomen body and he knew the dog was dying. “Your dog won’t make it without treatment by a vet, mister.”

      “Who cares? He’s just a worthless mutt.”

      “He just saved your life, mister.”

      “That mongrel was only protecting his meal ticket.”

      “From the looks of his ribs, he hasn’t gotten many meals from you.” The bowhunter saw missing tufts of hair from the whiplashes and had to control his anger. “Can I have him?”

      “Take the mangy mutt, it’ll save me the work of burying his stinking hide.”

     The bowhunter removed his shirt, wrapping it around the dog’s middle to keep his intestines inside. He gently cradled the dying dog and carried him a mile down the dirt road to his truck. Placing the dog on the seat beside him, he petted the injured animal and talked to him as he sped to the veterinarian clinic. “I don’t know if you can hear my voice, pal, but I’ll do everything I can to save you. I don’t care what that mean old man, says, in my book you’re a hero and a champion.”

      The bowhunter was vastly exceeding the speed limit, but the dog’s breathing was shallower than ever. He pulled into the vet’s parking lot and rushed inside with the dog in his arms.

      “What happened to him?” the Vet asked.

      “Razorback got him. Can you save him, doc?”

      He winced at the dog’s sever wound. “Maybe.” He gave the dog an injection of antibiotics and plasma for the blood loss, then sewed up the wound while the bowhunter watched. “I put a drain tube in his abdomen, so you’ll have to treat the wound with peroxide twice a day.”

      “No problem, what’s his prognosis?”

      “I can’t say. He’s seriously malnourished and probably has heartworms, to boot. If he survives the night, we’ll have to treat whatever else is wrong with him when he’s stronger. Judging by the welts, somebody’s been beating this dog; care to explain?

      “It wasn’t me, doc. I got the dog from an ornery old man who was mistreating him; he lives on the dirt road to the lake.”

      “Ah, no wonder! You’re talking about old man Fowler. That reprobate never brought this dog in for so much as a rabies shot. He’s an old bootlegger, mean as a snake and hates everybody, including man’s best friend.” The vet clenched his fist and punched the air, wishing it was Fowler’s face.

      “I’d like to hit him myself, doc; a man who mistreats his dog isn’t much of a man.”

      The vet nodded, gazing with sympathy at his canine patient. “I need to keep him overnight to administer an IV drip of saline and antibiotics. I also need to feed him intravenously to regain his strength. The only question is whether the dog has the will to live, considering the way he’s been mistreated.

      “Can I stay here with him tonight, doc; he needs a friend.”

     “Well, that’s not normal procedure, but he does need love if he has a chance of surviving. I’ll put blankets on the floor of a spare room for both of you to rest.

      The dog opened his eyes at daybreak. He didn’t know who the sleeping stranger was who lay beside him on the floor; all he remembered was being picked up by somebody and brought here. He licked the bowhunter’s face until he awoke.

      “Hello, pal, and good morning to you, too.” He petted the dog’s head and gently rubbed his back. The dog wagged his tail. “I don’t care if you are a mixed breed, my friend, you were a real hero and champion yesterday. Come to think of it, Champion is a good name for you.”

      When the vet arrived, he examined his patient and felt he was well enough to go home to his new owner. “Keep a check on his temperature because he has a slight fever; call me if it doesn’t get better.”

The dog loved his new home. The bowhunter fed him regularly and let him live inside the house. He felt safe and loved by his new master – especially after inspecting every square inch of the house and finding no whip. However, the vet told a reporter about the heroic dog and the bowhunter named Keith who brought him to the clinic. National newspapers ran the story and sympathetic donors sent thousands of dollars to Keith to pay the vet bills and feed the dog. As a result, word of the donations got back to old man Fowler, and he went to Keith’s home.

      “Say, my neighbors told me it was you who took my dog. I appreciate what you did for him, but I want him back...and the donation money.”

      “You gave that dog to me, remember?”

      “Nah, I don’t remember anything of the kind.”

      “Look, I’ll pay you for the dog.”

      “He’s ain’t for sale. All this publicity makes him worth a lot more than you could ever pay.”

     Keith wanted to strangle him. “Read my lips: you are not getting the dog back. Fact is, you ought to be in jail for mistreating him.”

      The old man sized up the muscular bowhunter and knew he wouldn’t win a fight. He left without a word. The next day, however, when Keith wasn’t around, he broke into the house and took the snarling dog.

      When the bowhunter returned home and couldn’t find Champion, he knew what happened. He drove to old man Fowler’s house to confront him. The dog was under the car and the old man had his whip out.

      “Drop that whip,” he ordered Fowler.

      “You can’t tell me what to do with my dog.”

      “Okay, I won’t tell you.” He jerked the whip out of his hand and punched him in the face.

      “I think you broke my nose!” Fowler screamed.

      “I’m going to break a lot more than that if you ever touch that dog again. Here’s a pen, paper and $200 payment for the dog. Sign a receipt or I’ll break your legs one at a time.”

      The old man feared the larger man and signed the receipt. Blood was still streaming out his broken nose.

      “And let me tell you something else: If I ever see you whipping any animal again, I’ll put the whip to you. You got that?”

      “Yes, Sir.

      “Come on Champion, let’s go home.” The dog crawled out from under the car and walked with his new master. He lay on the truck seat, resting his head on the bowhunter’s knee. Champion’s child-like eyes looked up at his master with nothing but love in his heart, then closed his eyes the rest of the way home.

      He finally had all he ever really wanted.

      A friend for life.

The End
Copyright © 2018-2019 by Ken Pealock