Buck Vs. the Bulldog Ants Page 3

CHAPTER THREE

  John Christianson is my master. I don't pretend to know much about how other humans do their own thing, but I do know that John is highly respected among men and obviously very wealthy as humans judge such things. The master's estate is vast, 320 acres vast, which is big for a dog like me, maybe not for an elephant. One-half mile from north to south and one mile east to west. It must be of great significance. I say this because of the many visitors that come and go. Some with suit coats and ties, others in bib overalls, still others in ragged attire and to which John gives vegetables by the bushel.

  John and his wife Beverly purchased me when I was about three months old. I don't know to this day where I was located at that time along with my two sisters who I hated to leave and have not seen since. My new home was filled with joy, and I must say, beauty. John and Beverly made for a handsome couple, she being quite a bit younger than John, I'd say by ten years.

  Beverly was constant energy and would often take me running. Her blonde ponytail would stream behind her as she leaped and laughed and talked with me on the run. She caressed me in a way that no one has ever done since. And I loved her smell which was not unlike the wonderful aroma of the meadow on a drizzly day. I was a birthday gift to Beverly and her love for me from day one caused John great satisfaction, and me too. I took great pleasure, and I guess you'd say pride, in causing happiness in her life. I can still see her sitting on the foyer floor, legs spread apart, giggling, and teaching me how to play patty cake. Her smiles, her laughs, her hugs, her love for me undoubtedly still reside in me as an important and integral part of my character.

  Beverly died when I was three. On Highway Nine one evening. An oncoming vehicle crossed into her lane which caused her to take evasive action too quickly. The SUV spun in the gravel shoulder and then rolled into an oak tree. The coroner said she wouldn't have suffered since the broken neck killed her instantly. That evening was the first time that I remember crying, and the only time I have ever seen John cry. We both wept while holding each other knowing our lives would never be the same. I remember wishing it had been me to go, not her.

  That sad incident caused John to take on a very noticeable somberness. He resigned his long tenured job as the CEO of a nationally known pesticide company and became reclusive for many months after her death. He commissioned a portrait of Beverly which to this day hangs behind his desk chair in the den. To me, that was a wonderful thing for the artist was able to capture her beauty and show the love in her eyes, for me, for John, for life itself.

  In time John emerged from his distant shell and began to smile again. I suppose as a loving testament to Beverly he began talking to me about anything and everything. Since John and Beverly were not fortunate enough to produce their own children I perceived that I was like a son to John. And I loved that.

  I would take a bullet for John. That would be my duty, to protect not only the man that has taught me a multitude of things, and fed me, and loved on me, but also to protect the man that means so much to the visitors that come. I am more expendable. He is not. Yes, I would do that for him. In a heartbeat. The irony is that he would do that for me, I know he would.

  So many things. I love all of them. Lazing at his feet in the den in front of the fireplace, or hikes through the endless woodlands that were north of the crop fields, or swimming with him in the big pond, or retrieving a pheasant that he had expertly brought down. But I gotta tell you, when he would bend over and caress my snout, and call me "old boy", that is the utmost joy. At such times I would narrow my eyes and smile, and I knew he took it as a smile, for he would smile too. Sometimes even belly laugh. The bond is strong......unbreakable if you ask me. I trust you already know how much we dogs love our masters. And we love it when we hear our masters talk to us. Rock solid, unconditional kind of stuff that melts our hearts.

  There are two matching rocking chairs on the front porch. John would invite me to take one of them, he the other, and we'd sit and listen. "Finch." "Hawk." "Dove.", he'd say as we heard the melodic sounds of nature’s choir. I would look at him and grin. This was as much fun to me as catching a Frisbee or retrieving a tennis ball. I learned the sounds too and sometimes I knew the source of a sound before he did.

  John taught me about snakes. "There's some good in every one of them," he explained, "but some are more moody than others. This one over here, he's a rattler, you can tell by the diamond shaped design and his tail. You want to be careful around rattlers because they can hurt you. Study them from a distance and you will see they can teach you a great lesson. They never leave their mate for another. They stay with each other 'til the very end, and that's a quality that my kind doesn't want to learn. They are completely unselfish and protective, and that's why they can be fierce. They've got nothing against you, they will not hunt you down. But if you challenge them they will strike at you, and if they get you with their fangs, you'll be sick or worse. Problem is sometimes you can almost step on them before you see them. They'll let you know you're too close by rattling the coils. If that should happen to you, Buck, freeze, don't take another step. Try to locate him, and when you do, slowly back away. If he should strike you, you come running and find me and I'll know what to do".

  One of the games we played was "get the stick". We'd play that while on the way somewhere. So one day, not long after the snake lesson, we were heading toward the big pond to swim. John threw the stick and I went to go get it, and halfway to it, I saw the coiled up rattler. I froze, and could hear John running to me. John got a lot closer to the snake than I was, and the snake raised its head to strike. I leapt and caught it by the neck just a few inches before it would have struck John's leg. I instinctively shook it violently to try to kill it. John said, "don't kill it, Buck. Go set it down over there. If you kill it, his mate will rattle in remorse all day and all night for two days straight." To this day I wonder if John hadn't set up that episode as an object lesson, else why it would have happened so soon after the snake conversation?

  Listen, observe, and understand. You know the drill. Ear to eye to brain to mouth.

  He taught me so many things, like how to recognize when the weather was about to change. He walked me to poplar tree and told me to take notice of the leaves. If leaning on edge, rain was not far off. Seems the poplars, as well as other trees, knew how to ask for rain. They would turn the leaf to release small organisms that would rise into the air. Those organisms would then form a microscopic base for water molecules to grab hold of, and keep joining together until they became too heavy to stay suspended in the air. Before too long, rain. Amazing stuff.

  How to recognize cloud formations and what it could mean for weather patterns. How to avoid the harvester by sniffing the wind for the smell of cut wheat. How to know when to run from a bull by counting the frequency of its breaths. How to recognize a bear trap. How to discourage rabbits from raiding the vegetable garden. And of course, something he really didn't need to teach me, but he did anyway, and that was how to hold a point at a game bird in the brush.

  Recently John seemed to have a matter that was of great importance. That was teaching me about ants and anthills. He said I'd want to avoid them and not stick my nose into their business, or I'd be sorry. Study them from a decent distance. He said ants are one of the most admirable of all creatures. That they were as ancient as any living thing and had survived despite cataclysmic upheavals that wiped out millions of creatures, but not the ants. They are hardy, and more determined than most any other living thing. So while we watched a host of ants at work, he showed me how they have a knack of finding the shortest route between the nest and a food source. They do this by laying down a scent for the others to follow. And if several lay down their scents, the ants will determine which the shortest route is. He showed me the difference between foragers and workers, how the foragers would store food in their mouths and take it back to the nest to share. He said there was something noble about sharing the things you are fortunate enou
gh to obtain.

  Use ants as your reference, observe the other animals and birds and pond creatures you encounter. See if you can identify their distinctive strengths and weaknesses. When you notice some are in need, perhaps you will be led to help them in some way. The best way to help is to show those in need how to help themselves in a better way. That's what ants can teach you and just about any other creature. They do it best.

  After what had happened with Candace and her beau, I now had a clue as to why John had taken such a painstaking effort to teach me about ants. He must have known at that time that ants would sooner or later have to be reckoned with. It will be imperative for Cassie to get as much as she can from tonight's meeting. And yet I was curious. John didn't seem to intimate that ants could be a threat, the type of warrior that could strip a hog clean to the bone. I was determined to find out more.

  I decided to invite myself to the meeting. Yes, I can be conniving, but can't we all if we're being totally honest. I suppose there's something oxymoronic hidden there......an honest conniver. I will fake being sick, no, I will limp. Conniving yes, honest, no.