Post 14: Never Cross An Angry Southern Woman

Summer gave way to fall, and our school routine returned. Mama would walk us up our long street, houses built at an easy distance with generous lawns on one side and a ten-acre pony field on the other. Missy and Donald accompanied us on our morning journey. Missy used her long snout to prod a wandering Donald. We talked with Mama, petted Missy, and nudged Donald, who stopped every ten feet or so to root out a bug.

            My mother and her siblings had grown up on this land that had comprised their father’s farm. Mama and Daddy were grateful that the new owners of the largest plot maintained it as a farm of sorts, raising miniature Chincoteague Island ponies contained by an almost quarter-mile of whitewashed cross-slat fence. We passed alternating pink and white dogwoods that lined the pony field and gave a beautiful display of spring blooms.

In the afternoons, Kit and I and ten or so other children from the neighborhood piled out of our bright orange school bus. There, waiting, were Missy and Donald, without Mama. Dog and duck were, on most afternoons, our escorts home. Donald lagged behind. Missy prodded. Our school bus friends were as eager to see them as we were.

After dropping our books and grabbing a snack, we headed for the backyard and waited for Woody’s return. He would often fly behind Mama and return through the back door, into the house and his cage for water or a bit of food, only to return to the backyard once Mama opened the door to freedom. As the fall progressed, it became clear that Woody belonged to us, and we to him.

One particularly warm fall day, just before Halloween, we came home to find Mama sitting on the front porch. It was clear she had been crying. Not saying a word, she led us inside. Nestled in one of Mama’s scarves in a shoebox was Woody, looking like he was having a pleasant nap. But we knew better. A shoebox was the standard burial container for our long list of beloved gold fish, turtles, and wild creatures who had moved beyond Mama’s healing hands.

Holding us close Mama began. “Woody is gone. I had come in from the backyard and left the main door open. The glass storm door was letting in such nice light. I had gone back inside to start dinner when I heard a screech and a small thump. Woody, apparently trying to escape what was most likely a catbird, had flown to the only safety he’s known, but didn’t see the glass. He died instantly. There was nothing I could do.”

The tears came, and Mama held us tighter. Missy nudged us with her cold nose, not understanding, but providing what comfort she could. We gave Woody a proper burial at the base of the elm tree where I had first found him. Mama said a few words, and Kit decorated the freshly turned dirt with colorful leaves. I placed a grave marker of smooth river stones from the creek. Daddy stood with us, quiet eyes blurred.

Donald and Missy continued their simple friendship. They played together during the day and slept together at night, with Missy curled protectively around her smaller charge. When winters came, they retreated to an insulated pen that Daddy had built outside against the fireplace chimney. As Donald passed his second, third, and then his fourth Easter, Mama convinced Daddy to let Donald winter over in the basement in a cozy pen next to the furnace. Missy adjusted and slept there, too.

One afternoon just after my tenth birthday, Donald and Missy did not meet Kit and me at the bus stop at the appointed time. I raced home to find Mama searching through the den coat closet. “I know it’s here somewhere,” she said in a voice that meant all business. Finding what she was looking for, she turned to me and said, “You are never to touch this. Do you understand me?” pointing to Daddy’s deer rifle, which she held comfortably in her right hand. “Let’s go for a drive.”

Without leash laws, dogs ran free. This particular afternoon, just after lunch, Mama heard an unfamiliar barking in the front yard. She ran out to find the McCarthys’ two Alaskan huskies attacking Donald, one on each wing, very nearly pulling him in half. Shooing them away, Mama gathered Donald in a towel and sped off to Dr. Macy, the vet we turned to when Mama’s gentle ministrations were not enough.

“He’s not dead, but the damn dogs dislocated both his wings and legs. Dr. Macy wanted to put him down, but . . .” Her voice thinned. “Donald’s a tough old bird. He’ll make it.” Mama concentrated on the road. Daddy’s deer rifle was in the back seat.

We turned down the long winding drive that led to the McCarthys’ large colonial. Their house was a good mile away from ours, which is why we didn’t usually see their huskies on our street.

As the car stopped at the front door, Mama grabbed the rifle, turned to me, and said, “Come with me. I want you to hear this.”

Kate McCarthy, a pleasant woman (“Dumb as dirt,” according to Aunt Cam), met us at the door in a Calico apron, her standard baking attire. “Why, Elizabeth how nice. And little Drew. Come on in. I’m just taking rolls out of the oven.”

Mama was shaking. Her blue eyes blazing, she stopped Kate and began: “Kate, this isn’t a social visit. I’m going to say this once. Your dogs attacked my duck this afternoon and very nearly tore him apart. He’s at Dr. Macy’s right now. You see this?” Mama said, gesturing to the unloaded but nonetheless impressive firearm in her right hand. “If your dogs ever—and I mean it, Kate—ever set foot in my yard again, I’ll shoot ’em. I love all living things, and your dogs are smart but, dammit, Kate, I mean it. They’re hunters. Keep them in your yard, or you’ll bury them there.”

Not in the least interested in a reply, Mama turned and strode to the car, with me in tow. She turned back to the stunned woman standing speechless at her own front door and added, “Dr. Macy is sending you his bill. Be sure and pay it.”

I think I must have been as amazed as Mrs. McCarthy as we began our drive home. It taught me a lesson: never cross an angry Southern woman, especially one with a gun.

Years later at our dinner table, when I recalled that afternoon, Mama remembered Donald and the huskies, but denied any recollection of the gun. Oddly enough, the McCarthys’ huskies never paid a return visit. Donald recovered fully and died of natural causes nine years later at the advanced age of thirteen.