Poor Buck’s Trial

Poor Buck’s Trial

Back in the days before the infinite internet and cable TV, the humid cool Saturdays of summer were dedicated to plucking at frisky sunfish from the many ponds of the local wildlife area. After dreaded chores, Fridays were spent pulling June bugs from around the porch light and digging worms out from under the leaves in the back yard in anticipation of Saturday’s piscatorial activities. I would check and re-check my small tackle box and tinkling containers of rusty hooks and rolling split-shots. I eagerly inspected each and every cork and plastic bobber to be sure it would spring around the line when the red button at the bobber’s top was pressed. Witness to all the preparation was my faithful mostly-beagle Buck, who was deeply interested in the stinky cheese smell of the jar of catfish bait in the back of my tackle box, and hung at my elbow hoping the dog-heaven stench/aroma meant a snack. Buck followed faithfully with his tail wagging in the garage and around our fenced yard, distracted only when answering nature’s calls or chasing the brave red squirrels and cottontails that wandered into Buck’s fenced domain. Friday night I barely slept, but somehow when Pop ducked in just after sunrise, I was always asleep. As soon as the words, “Time to get up, today is fishing day” emerged from his lips, the tiredness dropped away and sheer anticipation pulsed through my young veins. Since Dad would not even dream of waking his mate, he limited his kitchen activity to toast and coffee, and a sugary bath of cereal for me. Buck was an outside dog and lived in his den in the corner of the back yard, but as soon as he heard the activity in the kitchen, he pawed at the screen door. Unfortunately for Buck, he usually had to stay in the back, and today he would have to occupy himself with his yard explorations. We gave Buck a goodbye with a scratch behind the ears from Pop and a thorough petting from me. To distract Buck, and especially to keep him from barking and waking Mom in the gray dawn, Pop saved a few bones from the butcher and tossed them into Buck’s bowl. Before Buck finished munching, we had hopped into the already packed truck for the trip to our happy fishing grounds.

Down the curvy, dusty, road we went. When we came to the fork in the road just past the open gates of the Wildlife Area, I noticed a new sign. Stenciled on its cardboard surface were the words “Dog Trial” and an arrow to the right. I had just begun reading, and the word “trial” was a new word to me. I had seen a few detective shows during my parent-limited TV viewing, and I remembered it had something to do with courtrooms, really old judges, and noisy adults screaming at each other. I also remember that somehow during those shows if a person lost a ‘trial’ they went to jail or worse! We made the left turn, and thoughts of judgment fled my young mind as I spotted our predetermined fishing paradise, complete with a surface dimpled by feeding fish splashing in the morning light.

During that day, the eager sunfish pounded the products of my bait-hunting efforts, and while most of those titanic beasts (2”-6” fish) were released with a quick flip of Pops pliers to bite another day, a few of the larger specimens were added to the stringer, along with my Dad’s whiskered leviathans (2lb stocked channel catfish). As the day progressed to afternoon, my ears heard the sounds typical of a multi-use wildlife area: baying hounds, singing birds, and the occasional shotgun blast or rifle shot. My conscious mind was focused on the fun work of fish-catching, but my subconscious mind absorbed the sounds for later that evening.

The fishing day ended with a quick fish cleaning at the cleaning table near the lake. I proudly accepted the feast-sized portions of fish flesh for the frying pan that evening in a plastic bread bag which was tossed into the ice of our rusted cooler. My Mom turned the pink-white fillets into heavenly golden-brown nuggets nestled among fried onions and potatoes. I devoured the heavenly repast, with a little ketchup and tartar sauce, knowing my efforts had fed the family. With a full belly, I fell asleep on the couch between Mom and Pop while watching the console TV, Buck being allowed inside that evening to nap contentedly at his masters’ feet.

Normally Saturday night and the wee hours of Sunday morning passed without time, and usually my mind jumped from Saturday night to waking up for church with no memory of the time. However, this Saturday night’s slumber was very much different. My mind placed me in the courtroom from last night’s TV show, complete with gray paneled walls (we had a black and white set) behind a monolithic judge’s podium and gavel. I was behind one of the two tables facing the podium, and next to me was my trusty dog Buck, as defendant. The bailiffs were upright walking Dobermans, with badges and coats, and at the prosecution table was our neighbor’s red-eyed and tweed jacketed German Shepherd Duke. Behind the bench and looking down with disdain was the imposing Mr. Haster, my elementary school principal.

Mr. Haster began. “Buck, you stand accused of high crimes, including willful destruction of property and public disobedience. What is your plea?”

I quickly saw fear in my companion’s questioning eyes and nervous floppy ears, and heard myself answer “Not Guilty, you honor.”

Mr. Haster then continued, “Since you plead not guilty, the prosecutor, Duke, will state the evidence.”

Duke began with the same snarl that I heard last summer before he chased me out of the neighbor’s yard, minus the baseball that still sat un-recovered under their apple tree. My neck felt cold and I began to sweat in fear. Unlike the barking that usually follows the fanged snarl, Duke instead spoke in clear English that sounded very much like one of those characters on TV. “Buck, the evidence of your crimes is clear. First, last summer you were observed chewing your young master’s favorite sneakers into a sloppy, spit covered mess. Second, last Christmas Eve, you pulled open the Mistress’ gift to her husband, exposing the golf clubs he had sought all year and thereby ruining the Mistress’ surprise. Third, last month, you willfully sated your carnivorous hunger by sneaking up to the kitchen table and pulling off the freshly prepared chicken that was to be dinner for your masters. Finally, and most heinously, you, Buck, after consuming a glutinous amount of gravy spilled by your masters, threw up all over the entryway carpet. I have proof and witness to these acts, including Buck’s own young master seated beside him.”

The courtroom audience was aghast at the recitation of each of Buck’s crimes, and booed loudly after the gravy incident charge. Somehow time past further and I couldn’t speak in defense of my poor dog.

Soon the Judge was looking down at my cowering Buck and said, “What do you have to say for yourself, you awful cur, before I pass sentence?”

Buck began the pleading whimpering that I usually heard when he wanted in from the cold or wanted my last cookie, complete with lowered ears and upturned giant brown tearful eyes.

The Judge said “Since you have nothing to say, you are hereby found guilty and sentenced to death!”

I was frozen in place to watch helplessly as the bailiffs pulled out a very large shotgun like my Dad’s twelve-gauge but ten times as large. As they pointed the gun at Buck, my dog wailed and bayed. When the bailiffs pulled the trigger I awoke, finding my pillow drenched with tears, and the bed wet with sweat. I began to sob, forgetting for the moment why I was crying like a baby in the first place, and Mom came in wearing her pink plush bathrobe and hugged me to her chest. I forgot why I was crying and fell back asleep quickly, but woke in the morning with dread concern eating at the back of my mind. Sunday school, Sunday dinner, and much of the next week blurred by, and by Friday I was again collecting bait for Saturday’s exploits. Buck was again at my elbow when the memory of last Saturday night’s dream came flooding into my head. In concern, I dropped my coffee can of worms, and ran inside.

I queried: “Mom, Buck is a good dog, isn’t he?”

Mom answered with a grin as she observed my childish concern, “Why yes, I suppose he is. Why do you ask?”

I responded in yet more concern, clutching my pet to my pant leg in protection, “You won’t take him to the judge for anything he did? You know, make him go to Dog Trial?” My Mother suppressed a giggle but managed a look of seriousness. “Of course not, my child. What makes you think we would put him on trial, and where did you hear about a ‘Dog Trial’ like that?”

I answered in a tentative voice, like when answering a tough question in school, “When Dad took me fishing last week, we went past a sign that said “Dog Trial” on it, and I heard yelping dogs and bangs like from Dad’s gun.”

My Mom had to try really hard not to laugh, and after a few seconds composed herself again. “Honey, I think you may have misunderstood the sign. Your Dad and I love Buck just like you do, and would never put him on trial. I think the ‘Trial’ you saw on the sign means something else, like a test or a race. I will tell your Dad to show you tomorrow.”

The next morning came, and unlike on previous Saturdays when Mom went out with her grown up friends and left me and Dad to go fishing, she was awake in the morning and loaded her own fishing pole into the truck, along with lawn chairs and a lunch she got from the store. Down the familiar, curvy road we went, with me sandwiched between Mom and Pop on the front seat of Dad’s truck, to what I thought would be another day of fishing. As we approached the gate to the wildlife area, I became more and more nervous but Mom’s patting hand on my leg reassured me and calmed my fears. Unlike last Saturday, when we made the left turn to the fishing hole, Dad made a right turn, following the cardboard “Dog Trial” signs to a grass parking area and spot motioned by a man with a hunting cap and khaki shirt. Dad extracted a drink cooler full of soda pop and two lawn chars from the back of our truck, and asked me to carry my own smaller chair and to stay close. I could hear the baying and barking of dogs in the brushy field at the head of the parking area, and became really nervous. The site of trucks with screened boxes on the back, sort of like paddy wagons for dogs, did not make me feel better! We pulled out our lawn chairs in a line with many other families, sat down, and watched people and their dogs on leashes up ahead.

A man with a loudspeaker yelled out “Group C, get on line and ready.”

Four people, each with an eager and barking dog, lined up and each person carried a whistle and bag of treats. At the sound of the gunshot from the far side of the field I jumped, but again Mom grabbed my hand and Dad put his strong protecting arm on my shoulder.

What I saw next made me feel a bit foolish, and made my worry subside. While I did see a judge’s table, I didn’t see any bailiffs or mean prosecutors. The dogs did not get shot with the gun, to my surprise, but instead were let loose at the shot to jump and run into the marked-off field, guided by whistles to find hidden cloth bags. When a bag was found, the dog the brought the slobber-soaked bag back to his owner. After a period of frenzied dog tails bobbing and searching, the ‘heat’ ended. Then, I heard the man with the loud speakers announce the winning dog at the end of the heat. After a few such races I started to look forward to the starting gun sound and by the end of the day I was tired and very happy to have seen this kind of trial.

We didn’t really get to fish that day since I fell asleep leaving the grass lot, but after that day, once a month, I begged to go to the “Dog Trial” and started to train my Buck so that one day he might have his own appearance at the ‘Dog Trial’.