Ferocious Fox #1

I couldn’t have been more than 6 years old when my father first read me Wilson Rawls’ Where the Red Fern Grows. I remember holding Oatmeal, my teddy bear, as we listened to the story of a boy and his dogs. I knew my father and our two dogs had gone hunting and I tried to imagine their adventures being as wonderful as those of Old Dan and Little Ann. My father fueled my enthusiasm telling me that one day I, like Billy, could go hunting with him. Billy had become something of a hero for me and I talked about little else – Until the night we reached the end of the story.

As my father read the mountain lion scene I could tell that Oatmeal was afraid. I burrowed under the comforter to protect him but my father’s voice followed us. By the time the beloved story dogs had died I was in tears. My father tried to explain to me that they had died being good hunting dogs. I cried harder imagining my own dogs dying. My father then tried a more masculine approach, "son, it’s a part of hunting and you want to be a good hunter don’t you?" With that I began wailing. Oatmeal and I ran down the hall to mom.
"Dad is mean," I sniffled as she rubbed my back. "He is going to kill the dogs."
"I am not going to kill Rusty and Jack," my dad offered from the doorway.
"He said that is how dogs are good hunting dogs," I replied disbelieving, "and dad says Rusty and Jack are great hunting dogs."
My mom laughed, "Little Ann and Old Dan died because of an accident. When your dad goes hunting he is very careful and he doesn’t hunt mountain lions."
"He doesn’t?"
"No," she continued, "dad hunts for deer and birds. Can you imagine Bambi hurting Rusty and Jack?"
" I guess not." I looked to Oatmeal for agreement. He seemed convinced.
"Ready to go back to bed now?" My father asked picking up Oatmeal and me.

He tucked us in and for the next three weeks I dreamed of my dogs being eaten by lions.

*** *** ***
Years later my father and I did go hunting. Duck hunting. As I sat crouched in the rushes by the lake watching Rusty and Jack on point I remembered those nights reading Where the Red Fern Grows. The four of us seemed to be in perfect union. I took a deep breath, a shot, and then watched my dogs go bounding after my kill. As they brought the ducks back tails wagging and eyes wide I knew that they loved what we were doing. As my dad pounded me between the shoulders congratulating me on a great first hunt, I felt a bond with him that is impossible to describe to those who haven’t been there. I knelt down to scratch my dogs behind the ears, and realized that this is what a bond between a boy and his dogs was. This is what it felt like to be Billy. This was Where the Red Fern Grows.