Daddy got a new puppy. Her name is Abbie and she is a pumpkin.
Seeing him with a doggie reminded me of this story. I am posting this story below with his permission. Enjoy!
Sugar Road Farm; Pharr, Texas.
It was late Spring time with the dark green, 6-foot tall sweet corn about ready for the picking. And during the lonely times, I was able to find a bit of solace by “singing down the standpipes”.
That is, the farm had a forced-water irrigation system from deep, underground concrete conduits, and to insure the system’s protection for pressure relief, smaller concrete standpipes were installed at intervals of about each 50 to 100 yards.
Some of the small 12-inch diameter standpipes made a perfect acoustic system, and your voice would echo in a wonderful manner.
As was my late-morning custom after Saturday chores were complete, I had again ventured through the golden fields, an eighth mile west to the standpipes. Oh, what a wonderful sing I had that day. “Shrimp Boats Are A’ Coming, They’re Dancing Tonight”, had been played on the old Motorala radio the evening before, and this song sounded great echoing deep from underground.
This particular day my little dog, “Dodie”, had come along for company, but he had picked up a rabbit trail along the way and had wandered off. I don’t know if it was a sense that something was wrong or if it was a slight movement among the tall sunflower stalks to the north that caught my attention.
About 40 yards away stood a huge, Mexican grey wolf with piercing red eyes, and he had his eye on me. I was to be lunch. Reasoning that the concrete standpipe was far too short to be of much protection, I quickly dashed into the corn, running as fast as I could for home. The wolf charged as I made my move.
Down through the corn we went, crashing through the razor-sharp leaves across the furrows.
I could feel and smell the hot breath of the wolf as he raced positioning for the kill. “Oh, my God help me.” It was just then that Dodie dog reappeared, coming in a blur from the side to nip the back leg of the wolf. And down they went, fighting into a cloud of teeth and dust. Trying not to look back, I raced toward the safety of the farm.
Each time the wolf got close, Dodie dog would knock him down even though the wolf must have outweighed him by at least 30 to 40 pounds. “Run Dodie dog, run!”
As I reached the Sugar Road farm house still at full speed, I ran right through the back screen door.
Driven through the barrier by sheer terror and near exhaustion, I was caught by the solid balance wire that cut across the door and was thrown flat, tumbling out into the red-tiled hallway. Right behind came Dodie dog, nearly unscathed, diving through the door and into the safety of my waiting arms. We had survived only by the grace of God and Dodie’s timely ability.
With my screaming and a’ hollering, Mom came running to see what in heaven’s name was the matter. But Dodie dog and I never saw that wolf again. And I like to got a whipping.
But Mama couldn’t decide which was worse: tearing a hole in the back screen door, letting the dog in the house, or telling such a tall tale.
And it is in His debt, that I remain always.
John Kenton Thompson
I believe I have heard your daddy tell that story before, but downright beautiful prose in writing. I now know where you get your gift for linking beautiful words together.