Posted: Jun 30, 08 12:26pm
It was one of those typical sweltering days in the South. July of 1960 was proving to be a month to be remembered. I didn't know too much about the weather, being only four, but I did know hot when I felt it. A window air conditioner was only a dream. We made do with an attic fan, and slept with the windows open since early May. Waking up damp with perspiration was our badge of courage for making Mississippi our home. The heat and my youthful ignorance would soon prove disastrous.
The day started out fairly well. Mama arose early and started breakfast. That was her duty. Southern women, especially Mothers, had duties. Unmarried young women had dreams. Dreams of someday having duties. It didn't make too much sense to me. I just wanted to be outside playing, or fishing with my friends. Anyway, I crawled out of bed soon after Mama from the smell of sausage and biscuits on the table. Daddy would be up and to the table after his morning bath. Showers hadn't been invented yet, at least not in our town. It was a bath where you got to lie down in a tub of tepid water to wash away the dirt and sweat from the day before. So far this day was going to be a good day, albeit stifling. That's when I heard Daddy raise his voice. "What's that ungodly smell? Honey did you clean some catfish last night and forget to put the garbage out?" I sank low in my chair hoping he wouldn't see the guilt on my face, but it was much too late to fix things now.
Five days earlier, it had been raining hard. The kind of rain that left lakes in our yard, and rivers along the ditches which lined our red dirt road. Just the kind of rain that Duke, our Labrador and I liked. As I pulled on my galoshes I thought of my dog and our special bond. I called for Duke but didn't hear him bark. He should be running up to me and jumping on my chest. That was his typical greeting. It was a ritual, and for a moment I was worried. After all I was four years old, and rituals were important to me. I had rituals for almost everything. When I met up with my friend Glen each day, our ritual was to punch each other as hard as we could. It hurt, but it was our ritual. If I didn't get my punch, I felt unacknowledged, I needed that punch to validate our bond. I needed Duke's presence, but he was no where to be found. I decided I had to go look for him so I put on my Hopalong Cassidy cowboy hat and gloves and set out in search of my buddy.
The rain had turned the dirt road in front of our house into a gumbo of red and yellow clay. I slipped with each tentative step I took, hoping to find Duke at the next turn in the road. As I approached the intersection of where our road intersected with the main county highway, I saw Duke. He had been hit by a car, and he lay motionless in the rain. I knelt down and opened his mouth out of curiosity. His tongue was swollen, his jaw was rigid. Even at my young age, I knew he was dead. I felt ashamed. I should have taken better care of Duke and protected him from all the bad things in life. He was more than my friend, he was my responsibility. I wasn't going to let him lie out in the road in the rain. I grabbed him tight by the tail with my cowboy gloves and dragged him home. I found a place to hide his body in the garage which adjoins our home. Somehow hiding his body relieved me of some of the shame I felt for not caring and watching out for him better. I had failed him, and now he was dead.
The next few days passed uneventfully, although questions of Duke's whereabouts came up nightly. Mama and Daddy would say Duke probably found a girlfriend, and was out "sewing his oats". I wished they would stop talking about him. My guilt was tremendous, and I became more and more ashamed each time Duke was mentioned during our family talks. Although I was intrigued with the notion of sewing oats. I tried to figure out in my young mind how oats could be sewn together and why would a dog take up that hobby. Regardless, the guilt was too much for a four year old to bear, so I decided that I would tell all in the morning.
That brings me back to to the breakfast table. As I slid down in my chair, I was promptly brought back to reality with a stern look from my Daddy's all knowing eyes. I couldn't take it anymore.. . "I did it! I know what happened to Duke", I said. Daddy followed me to the garage, and in behind a stack of tires, and a swarm of flies rested the body of our faithful servant. Duke in all his glory had decomposed, and sometime during the night, for lack of a better word, had exploded. Daddy said a very bad word, then composed himself, and very lovingly took me by the hand back inside the house. We all took our breakfast out to the back yard and sat at the picnic table and laughed, cried, and remembered our faithful Duke. Although Daddy punished me by having me clean up the mess I helped create, I finally understood unconditional parental love, the price of keeping secrets from family, and where the term, 'It's going to be a dog day afternoon' originated.
