“Hello,”
I said to the caller, “Hey…there is a small fawn inside your fence, and one of
the dogs is chasing it,” Elaine exclaimed while she was pulling away from the
driveway to go to work. I had only been awake
for just a few minutes and was making myself a cup of coffee. Going into survival mode, I grabbed my 38 Chief special revolver that is hidden
at the back door for emergencies and slipped on the only shoes that were
anywhere near me, my famous orange Crocks, and headed out to the far end of the
property where I could hear a dog going through the woods barking after
something but this time, I knew what it was.
In one hand, I held my 38 snub-nose revolver but pointed it in the air, and the other hand was holding up my loose-fitting sleeping pants and ran toward the distance barking. In my mind, I could see a
vicious dog tearing into a poor innocent fawn or a mother deer tearing into a
dog that was protecting her young, and the latter is the most probable. The good part, there were only two dogs
outside at the time, Clancy and a friend’s dog that was staying with us for the night
and was going home that morning.
The
grass was wet because of the heavy dew on the ground, and I was running with one
hand pointed up holding the gun, the other hand holding my pants, and my feet shuffling and scooting to keep my shoes on because my feet were wet. Note to readers: Running with Crocks that are wet inside, slick on the bottom, and wet grass with no arms that can balance you
can be dangerous.
Once
I reached the lake, and knowing it would be shorter to go down the levy of the dam
rather than around, I headed down the slope.
About 20 feet into my decline, I knew I was in trouble as I hadn’t
slowed down at all; in fact, I was speeding up and unable to stop. My little feet were high, stepping as fast as I could manage, especially with one arm in the air with my coveted 38 and one hand holding up my pants… Note to
readers; do not run fast down a hill on wet grass with orange Crocks with no hands for balance; it can be dangerous.
By
the grace of the Crock or dog gods, I made it down the 50-foot embankment without
falling down. I still had to run up
another hill and nearly five hundred feet to get close to the dog and
fawn. The barking was continuing, and my mind was running wild as to who was in trouble. I didn’t realize it was probably me.
I
saw the spotted fawn and the guest dog.
It appeared that there was no problem, but the dog was curious, and no
mamma deer was anywhere to be seen… Whew…
The guest dog turned toward the house and started running, which I
assumed he wanted to get breakfast.
The fawn was scared and nearly came up to me looking for help; we were close to one of
the twelve-foot gates on the farm that exited the property. Case closed… open the gate and walk back to the kennel, putting the guest dog up, and the fawn will surely walk back to Mamma Deer when it has a chance.
So off to the house I went, my gun by my side, my other arm holding my pants up, and dew in my crocks that were falling off. Out of breath, I
walked down one levy and back up the one I had just flown down. The guest dog was standing at the kennel door, but when I was about 10 feet from the dog, his instinct kicked in, and off he
went as fast as he had ever run. I don’t
know if it was “get the fawn” or “I’m out of here,” and I suspect it was the
latter.
I
looked down at the ground at my wet orange Crocks… then toward the heavens, and
said, “SHI……. Sugar”… and off I went
back toward the open gate, and I just knew that I would never find a running dog
in the four thousand undeveloped acres of the Hoosier Nation Forrest. I took about ten steps, kicked off my orange
Crocks, threw the gun on the ground, and started running like a man, except I was
still holding up my pants. I again
ran down the hill, up the hill, and over the levy toward the gate. Again, by the dog gods' fate, the guest
dog turned away from the open gate for some reason and sprinted off in another
direction. The gate is over a small knoll, and I could not see it, but I’m sure the dog didn’t either. I kicked in everything I had, running the
last 50 yards like a high school kid, topped the hill, and slammed the 5” high
gate shut, hoping the dog was still inside.
 |
| Hodad |
I
walked back to the house, not seeing the dog but hoping he was inside the
gate. I had to take a few breaks just to
catch my breath, and when I got near the house, sitting on the back porch
wagging his tail was a thrilled, well-exercised dog…
The moral of this story;
Don’t
run in wet Crocks down a hill with no hands...
Don’t
leave a gate open when you want to keep something inside...
Don’t
expect a curious dog to mind...
And
why would I take a 38 Chief Special revolver with me? I’ve tried to answer that myself. I might as well have taken a picnic basket, a
book, or a crossword puzzle… Maybe I should have had that first cup of coffee… and
pants that would stay up…
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you next week, or follow us today on Facebook
