Buck Vs. the Bulldog Ants Read online



  Buck versus the Bulldog Ants

  David Kersey

  Copyright 2013 David Kersey

  PART ONE – THE INVASION

  CHAPTER ONE

  The meadow was unusually ablaze that late spring day. Courting the dusty emerald of wild alfalfa a sea of lavender slowed danced in lovers’ bliss, joined by sunflowers swaying in obedience to the warm Midwestern breeze. Boisterous primrose the magical color of the setting sun joined in the choreography. The shady areas which abutted and were in the shadow of the hardwoods boasted a rush of English bluebells with an occasional clutch of daffodils here and there.

  I paused my stroll to take it in again, as I had many times before. The meadow had meaning. A grand design that sucked the melancholy out of its audience. I was not the only one enraptured that day. Butterflies hovered over the actors, laughing about their new found freedom. I felt serenity throughout my body, like a cold shiver can entirely consume, however this was joy I think.

  Beyond that, I knew from experience that my master, who is John Christianson, would have an abundant year. I knew because in years past the meadow wasn't always this luxuriant. The crop fields John farmed followed the lead of the meadow year after year. Though John usually toiled in fields not too far from this spectacle, he could occasionally be found plucking thistles, furze, and brambles that sought to invade this sacred mix of color. I helped by rooting up as many weeds as I could, but I did that more to earn his smile than anything else. He smiled a lot which made me smile too. I loved those times of walking alongside the master as he evicted the undesirable tenants. I think he loved it too. We were buds and still are. He's the one who named me Buck. I don't mind that name, I think it's cool. Better than Herbert or some other archaic name.

  This was good earth. A place of abundance. Just about anything could succeed given the chance. Like neighboring farmer Jenkins had said, "This is where God decided to put His garden". In my mind I pictured God pointing, and zap, a maple, zap, an elm, zap, zap, zap. A million creations in milliseconds. Each with their own aura of fragrances, colors, textures, sounds, and moods. Yes, moods. For example, the maple. Magnificent in summer with a color, sheen, texture, and odor that slowly changed as summer gave way to fall, and then winter, when its crowning glory had changed moods from glorious green leaves to burned out browns that had fallen to mildewed, damp cushions on the forest floor. That's what I called moods. They changed moods in obedience to the law of the universe just about the same way every year. Magnificent. There’s no better way to describe it.

  Even Mortimer would likely give an approving nod. Well, that might be a stretch. My thoughts strayed. I couldn't help but smile, like Golden Retrievers are known to do, when thinking about Mort. Or for that matter all of the others I would soon be joining in the clearing caused me to grin, even laugh sometimes. If you've had a Golden, you know. Not many of us canines are known for our laughing countenance, but it really does happen. We can talk too, it just takes time and laborious practice. So do many of the critters Mort and I had taught to speak in my nine years of growth. I have no idea how old Mort is, but I'd say as old as, well, that big oak over there. He's old. His breath tells me so.

  Mort's mood never changed come drought or high water, bitter cold or scorching heat. His emotion level was as taut as a telephone wire, unlike many of us animals that could become fickle as a feather in the breeze. Mort was indeed steady and that made him a reliable and patient teacher, but as you’ll see, his oration was the speed of tree sap attempting to escape from a shroud of bark. Because of that the animals preferred me to dominate the class time.

  We first had to teach our chums how to listen which frankly took a lot of time and frustrating experiences. Yet, they did learn, despite their differences. First things first, listening has to come before speaking. Like John had told me, ‘it's better to listen than talk. There are many who will talk without having first prepared themselves by listening, then observing, then understanding, and then speaking.’ I have learned that from my master. I know when to speak, and when to observe, and those things I will have to exercise in a few minutes when the others are in their places.

  About the speaking, though, I trust you’ll find it not all that hard to believe, I mean for a dog or other animals to speak. For instance, the word TREE. You have to hear the word first, that’s 101 stuff. Then see the tree to imprint a link between ear and eye, then understand what it is, you know, its function. And finally curve your lips and tongue and squeak out the word TREE. It can be done, I’m proof of it, though words beginning with the letter T are a challenge for me. My tongue is too long to click off the roof of my mouth without making a contorted adjustment, and if I’m not careful the word tree, for instance, will come out three unless I perfectly place my tongue. In time I figured it outh, oops. Just kidding.

  Back to Mort. Mortimer, who you might already surmise is a mule, was often heard bellowing loud heehaws without probable cause. Mules are strange, at least I thought so at the time. I had heard that incessant noise since I was a pup. It meant nothing, other than it might have meant that Mort was relieving himself. So I observed, and when I saw Mort raise his upper lip and brandish those huge buck teeth, and then conclude his abdominal anguish with a pile of steamy trailings, well, I had listened, and observed like John had instructed. It was then that I realized that Mort wasn't in anguish. It was an epiphany for me. He was celebrating, and that led to an eventual encounter that would change the animal life of the estate forever. Can you believe a pile of crap was so very instrumental in my next stage of growth? Maybe it works that way for a lot of folks.

  The encounter happened about four years ago when I came across old Mort quite by happenstance. There he was in the middle of the clearing on a misty and cool afternoon. Mort laid his lazy eyes on me and just stared for a few restless moments.

  Then he slowly opened his lips, then closed, then opened again, as if he wasn't quite sure he was in the mood to celebrate. I must admit I have known that feeling myself. After a few more moments, Mort brandished his yellow bucks by curling his upper lip, and out came a grumbling that closely sounded like "Whazzup", only it lasted quite long, like "Whhhhaaaazzzzuuuuppppppp?” Old Mort could take a big chunk out the day when he decided to speak, and that painfully slow deliberation would happen all too often to the obvious chagrin of especially Methusaleh, but some of the others too. Well, all the others really.

  As one might well imagine, I was profoundly astonished. I searched the ground aft of Mort. Nothing. No mound of victory. I could not readily come to grips with my usually keen hearing. I mentally replayed the sound. It wasn't the heeeehhaaawww that only mules are known to articulate. No, it was something like "whhhhaaaazzzzuuuuuppppp". I stared at Mort and continued to contemplate. After a series of futile attempts to comprehend what Mort belched out, I decided to try to bark a similar noise. After practicing a few contortions with my lips, and experimenting with my ten inch tongue, I put some sound with it, and much to my surprise, out came "rrrufffzuh". To which Mort replied "nnnoott mmuucchhh".

  So that was how it had started some four years ago. I understand the meaning of words because John had taught me to listen, which I did well and often. I understood almost every word that John said. Almost. By the way, I call him John in my head, but he is really Mr. Christianson, let's get that straight. He deserves my respect. Just sayin'. But speaking words was a totally new phenomenon, and it took a great deal of practice to make them understandable even to myself. I made it a point to listen for certain words and then escape off to the meadow to practice them. Almost daily Mort and I would practice with each other, but frankly, it was frustrating, for when Mort spoke, I would raise my paw an
d make air circles a few times in order to prod him to just get on with it.

  I resolved in the next few days following that first encounter with Mort that I would carefully listen and observe the behavior of the fellow inhabitants of the estate. Those on the ground, in the air, in the ponds, and wherever I encountered a living critter. My master's lessons echoed in my mind so that, with practice, I could not only learn to hear what some were saying, but of much greater significance, what they were meaning. Beyond that, perhaps determine a need behind the meaning. No, I have never taken psychology classes and don't think I ever should since I don't know how to hold a pencil. Everybody knows psychologists must have a pencil in hand at all times.

  I continued to practice quietly. I further resolved that if I was successful communicating with the others that I would be slow to speak. Not slow like Mort, that's not what I mean.

  So today, despite my pleased mood, I know that I will have to listen well and diplomatically be slow to speak even though this meeting shouldn't be a biggie. Biggie is the code word that all twelve must attend because the welfare of us all could be at issue. A meeting of the twelve is scheduled to begin in a few minutes, and I envision the group already assembling in the clearing, except perhaps for Mort who attended when he felt like it.

  The twelve comprised an inner circle of sorts, with each member of the twelve representing his or her own folk. For instance, Penelope spoke for the wild pigs that roamed the fields and forests both in and out of the estate boundaries. And indeed, Penelope, who the group called Penny, would be front and center today. Her clan was the object of a summary complaint filed by the squirrels, represented by Stammer. Aptly named, for he really did stammer. No one really knew his real name. Calling him Stammer didn't seem to bother him, he was fully aware of his impediment, which was accentuated by him stomping his foot in cadence to his stammering, like that would make his rat-a-tat delivery as smooth as glass. It worked for him.

  The complaint had to do with the pigs relieving their persistent itching by scratching themselves on the tree trunks that had been marked by the squirrels. That was a no-no, because the pig's scent completely and disgustingly smothered over the markings, making the squirrels feel less distinguished. Stammer, by the way, and which I knew, would have been told by the other squirrels not to tell the whole story, that being that squirrels just don't like pigs. I would be careful handling this issue which surely was not a biggie. This was a two on a one to ten. But I also knew from experience that the squirrels could handle this problem in a flash had they wanted. They just wanted to make waves since squirrels considered themselves an orderly species, as opposed to pigs’ complete lack of self-discipline and slovenliness. Actually, I don't mind the scent of the pigs, kind of like it in a quirky sort of way, but I kept that to myself. That's one example of what I meant by slow to speak.

  Most of the others in the group also knew pigs and squirrels were not the best of friends. Alas, there are prejudices in the animal realm. In fact, the last meeting involved an episode in which more than one squirrel was accused of being nut launchers. How demeaning to all of the swine kingdom for the squirrels to be in their lofty places throwing acorns at the pigs travelling underneath. At that episode, Penny handled herself well and placated her kin plaintiffs by saying it was just simply housecleaning by the squirrels, no targets intended. After all, pigs aren't too interested in details, just the bottom line. But I was almost sure I heard a cacophony of squirrel chatter, which I took to be giggles, right after the verdict was rendered.

  I was deep in thought as I continued my trek to the clearing when I came to one of the estates two ponds, and as usual, there was Ferdinand, who also as usual, was half submerged and half on the bank. I don't think I've ever seen the lower half of Ferd.

  "G'day mate", Ferdinand croaked. He then lifted his small green leg and made a salute as was his custom.

  "G'day Ferd, gettin’ any?" I replied. I always replied that way, and I also wondered if Ferd ever had moved from that spot.....half in, half out.....a condition I supposed all living things were apt to experience in one way or another, or at one time or another. Ferd took that a step farther in that one eye was trained on an aerial morsel, the other looking straightaway at me. Maybe that duplicity also applied to others. I had tried to affix my eyes that way, and it only made me dizzy, so maybe not. And so some can do what others can't. How interesting and wonderful life is, I thought.

  Just then Ferd zapped his target. And then he looked at me with both eyes, and said, "think dar might be a skiff in da wind, mate, an' it ain't jus da green stuff, somes my kin jus now showin’ up, an' I ain't too bloomin’ happy about it. An' new crits too, mate, sumpins’ goin on." I looked and saw that the green stuff was an accumulation of pond scum the last storm had blown to one end.

  And then he said, "Keep an eye out mate, I know I am." That made me chuckle, internally of course, but I knew what he meant.

  I wondered about Ferd’s portent as I continued my stroll toward the clearing. The trail left the openness of the meadow and entered into the shadowed canopy of oaks and elms and maples. The path through the length of hardwoods was not long, only 152 paces at leisure but less than 50 if I was needed in a hurry. I'm fairly fast afoot but I'm probably slower than half the twelve. You could say I'm half fast, but that could be misconstrued, so don't say it if you don't mind.

  Surely enough, as I was nearly through the trees, just like most every other time, I could hear the voice of Dorcas above the others. I wondered if Dorcas would be a liability if the community needed absolute silence for whatever reason. Maybe we'd have to tape her bill shut. Even so, I could picture her frantically flapping her wings and kicking her webbed feet and furiously fanning her tail feathers and still muffle out more noise than any of us could muster. And if Dorcas couldn't tell her stupid jokes time and time again she would pout for a month. Perish the thought.

  How many times could I or anyone else tolerate the "I got up at the quack of dawn" joke? After telling it, or any of her other worn out gags, she would quack and prance around in an exuberant display of self-satisfaction, while the others either rolled their eyes or examined their paws. No wonder the group had shorted her name to Dork.