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That One Day in the Field

RUN!

By Barb DukemanPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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Two acres was the minimum needed to own land in the part of the county where I grew up. Our neighbors had 10 acres, 20, and the area across the “street” was thousands of acres and uninhabited because it was part of a vast well field that supplied water to a big city an hour south of us. We were secluded and may not have had the same kind of fun as the other kids in our small-town school had. We certainly didn’t go trick-or-treating, watch cable, or go to the movies.

It wasn’t that we didn’t have fun; it was just a different kind of fun in a different setting. We lived down a one-mile dirt road, and by dirt, I mean the county put down and bulldozed a powdery white rock on top of the dirt from the paved road at the beginning to the end of ours when they felt bad enough. More likely it was required for rural route delivery and emergency vehicles. To say we had potholes is an understatement. Riding our bikes down this road we’d get whiplash. They were everywhere.

The nice county people did supply us with an endless supply of rocks. We weren’t maliciously mischievous, just a few bored kids with nothing to do over the summer. When the acorns fell from the oaks, we stuffed them into mailboxes of people who had yelled at us (“You kids get off my lawn!”). Surveilling from afar, we’d giggle ourselves silly when the Mean Old Man from the house near us opened his mailbox, and a ton of acorns just tumbled out. As I said, we weren’t mean kids at all.

On that dirt road we had strict borders. Between The Old Oak Tree and Crilly’s Gate. That was as far as we could go by ourselves. Everyone knew everyone else around there and their dogs, and there was always an eye out for people in cars that didn’t belong. “Hey, Pam, there was a white car in your driveway today,” my mom would call and tell Jenn and Anne’s mom.

Pam replied, “Thanks, Dee. That was my brother-in-law who dropped off new tires for the tractor. Thanks.”

That was a way of life around there. Local drivers did the hand-still-on-the-steering-wheel wave as a howdy-do or namaste; something that said I recognize you. Sometimes a lot of traffic would go down that road for a funeral with the hearse hitting all those potholes as well. We literally had a dead end – an old cemetery that dated back far enough to have the released slaves and migrants who settled this area in the 1880s. It was sad to see the older section of the cemetery with its hand-made cement headstones decorated with shells and hand-written dates: 1899-1900, 1910-1910, 1913-14. Many in that corner were babies that just couldn’t make it in this life.

It’s still an active cemetery but there’s not a whole lot of room left. It had a simple barbed-wired fence, and a single opening. On either side of the road and cemetery at the end of the road were open fields where cattle owners leased the land for their cows to eat the grass. Every time we walked down the road, we ALWAYS had to say it: “Moooo.” It’s just what you do when you pass by cows. Talk to them in their own language.

Halfway from my smaller dirt road (from the bigger dirt road), there was a thing. As kids we didn’t know what it was, but as a grown-up I know it’s part of the well system, a set of 30’ round corrugated metal tubes from the ground that helped manage the flow of water. All we knew is if we threw rocks in the right place, we could hear them hit the top metal grate with a resounding THOCK. We’d have contests on who could hit it the most. I’m sure the maintenance people probably scratched their heads wondering where all the rocks came from.

On the opposite side of that was one part of the creek. On rare occasion we’d see a car or pick-up truck parked in the road with no one in it. That usually meant someone went fishing, judging by the beer cans and fast-food trash we found. We were extremely naïve. We couldn’t think of anything else they’d be doing out there. All those sins weren’t part of our upbringing yet. We’d have to wait until high school to hear the terminology of what some of them were doing.

At the beginning of the road was our bus stop. Yes, we walked a ½ mile to get there. There’d be no way a bus could turn around on the dirt road. Bad enough the garbage trucks made ruts in the soft dirt when they maneuvered their three-point turn to leave. My mom usually walked the five us to the bus stop: Jenn, Anne Marie, Aaron, and Sharon from the house next door, and me. One day my mom spotted a raggedy-looking poodle-schnauzer mix, maybe 30-35 pounds at most, abandoned at the bus stop. Her fur was matted, and she was deeply in need of a good bath. My mom brought food to give her each morning, and within a week she followed my mom home. We had a new dog.

A pregnant dog. After cleaning her up and trimming her hair, pulling out all the burrs and sandspurs, we discovered Daisy’s condition. We kept her in the garage in a comfy box where she had a small litter of three puppies. Since we already had another dog, we couldn’t keep these. After they were weaned, my parents put them in a box and took them to the local grocery store with a sign “free puppies” in the box. There were gone in less than an hour. I know this is a common thing, but I was sad, nonetheless.

Aaron and Sharon had a pit-bull looking dog named Rex in their fenced-in yard. He barked up a storm at anyone who drove by or made noise, so that dog barked at molecules of dust and rustling leaves. He never barked at my mom, though; he was probably too afraid. Rex would run back and forth in behind that fence from one side to the other, stopping so fast that he built up dirt in each corner, almost like a step stool. Daisy and Rex had deep conversations through the fence in their back yard (our side yard), probably dissing the yappy Pekinese that the Crillys owned or keeping tabs on a feral cat or wayward possum. Our front yard wasn’t fenced in, so when we took walks, Daisy would tag along.

On the west side of the road and half of the east, barbed wire fences kept trespassers out. At least most trespassers. We lived there, so we didn’t count. We soon discovered that if you twist two sets of two lines of barbed wire, we could slip through quite easily to the other side. It was technically still between the Old Oak Tree and Crilly’s Gate, so we often explored the area. Sometimes we found a cool-looking stick or jump when a snake came by. We found that dried cow patties made excellent yet disgusting frisbees. In the distance, we could see the cattle, and we were sure they weren’t that close, so we continued playing in no-man’s-land, climbing trees, and looking for buried treasure.

The cows were closer than we presumed. There were three of us, Jenn, Anne Marie, and me along with Daisy. Rex was watching us from his front yard. Cows in our textbooks are small, no bigger than three of my fingers. Up close, they’re as big as a VW bug. They were the plain brown kind, and we figured if we didn’t bother them, they wouldn’t bother us. We’d return the cow pies if they wanted them that badly. Our parents always taught us that concept when it came to unknown dogs or honeybees. Don’t run, they said. Then the big-ass cow showed up.

Evidently, that was a bull protecting his herd. And he did not like us being anywhere near his girls. He started to move toward us, and we took off running. We didn’t realize how far we strayed from the fence, but the sound of his hooves was getting louder. We’re all screaming, and Daisy started yelping. That’s when Rex lost his mind and jumped into action.

I’ve never seen a dog jump that high except on those fancy schmancy dog shows on TV. Rex cleared one side of his fence by leaping off the little pile of dirt. For a thick dog he dashed quickly through the barbed wire opening toward us, and toward the bull. He stopped between us, Daisy, and the bull. The bull paused, quite possibly because he was confused that this tiny cow was barking at him. I do not know if cows understand what dogs are saying, but Rex was saying something loud and ferocious. If I had to translate, it would be “GETTHEFUKAWAYFROMMYGIRLFRIEND ORI’LLTEARYOUFROMLIMBTOLIMB!” The three of us and Daisy made it back to the fence and scooted out between the wires. We started calling out for Rex because although he’s big and scary, I don’t know if he had a shred of common sense. He was backing up as he was barking, smart move on his part because the bull moving faster toward him now. When he was about ten feet from the fence, he turned tail and ran like the devil were after him. The bull bounded up to the fence, stopping short of hitting the top barbed wire. We quickly unbound the wire hole, not that the bull would fit, but as a reminder we shouldn’t have been out there in the first place.

We lavished praise on Rex when his owner, the Mean Old Man, came out and started yelling at us. “What are you doing with my dog. Rex! Come here!” Rex, however, couldn’t come in the way he left. The Mean Old Man had to unlock his gate, muttering up a storm and calling his dog back. Rex obediently trotted back as if this were a normal day for him.

We learned three big lessons that day. 1: Don’t underestimate well-trained big dogs. Rex saved our lives that day. 2: If the sign says, “No Trespassing” and has a barbed-wire fence, there’s a reason for it. And 3: Respect animals bigger than yourself. That pretty cow has a bull-friend, and he will gore you to death and stomp on you if you don’t give him the respect he deserves.

Secrets
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About the Creator

Barb Dukeman

After 32 years of teaching high school English, I've started writing again and loving every minute of it. I enjoy bringing ideas to life and the concept of leaving behind a legacy.

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