Introduction:

Hi,

Glad you decided to drop by my blog. I enjoy story telling and making up stories. Therefore, I decided to start this blog to share some of my stories with anyone who may be interested. If you enjoy what you read here, please tell others about it. I promise to never post a story here which you would be ashamed to read to your children (or be ashamed if someone caught you reading it).



Blessings,

C. Bowman

Monday, April 15, 2013

The Dog


Another in the series of stories of a fictitious early American swamper and frontiersman from what is today the southeastern part of the state of Georgia, USA. Known as Clifton, he frequent travels the Satilla River and its tributaries and also often hunts and camps within the great Okefenokee swamp. The time period is set as being roughly within the 1820 to 1850 time period. CB 
 (Reading level: grade 7.1)
“It’s a dog,” Cross Toed John stated defiantly. The argument had been quietly ongoing for several minutes. Clifton glanced sideways at his good friend, half smiled and muttered quietly,” You are so so wrong. It’s a wolf… one of them they call the red wolf.” The sounds of buzzing bees and other insects was all that broke the silence along the slowly moving darkish waters of the Satilla. The two had been sitting calmly between two tree trunks which had fallen down off the nearby crumbling river bank, fishing for their supper. Their attention had been drawn to something half hidden by the grasses crowding out the mouth of a distant slough up river about a hundred yards or so. It was the sudden movement of what appeared to both of them to be some type of dog like animal hunting among the grasses which had given birth to their good natured argument.

“Dog,” said John. “Wrong, you too educated Indian… it’s a red wolf….I’ll clean the fish for supper if it ain’t,” argued Clifton. “You half blind white man, it’s plain to see that it is a dog,” replied John. “And I’ll take you up on that offer. Besides, those animals have long since been run out of this area by all you white people and your dogs!”

“That’s just plain wrong, Jo—,“ the comment stopped in mid-voice as both men suddenly involuntarily flinched as the water near the concealed creature suddenly exploded in a cloud of spray and splashing! The violent attack by the bull alligator exploding upwards out of the shallow waters of the slough mouth caught the creature by surprise, it’s screech of fear cut off, barely heard by the watching friends. The alligator caught his prey in his massive jaws and immediately rolled violently to his right doing two to three quick revolutions before backing quickly into the deeper waters, the creature now hanging limply from his jaws partially visible above the surface. “See, it was a dog,” John said in matter of fact fashion.

“It was not a dog…it had a bushier tail than a dog does, it was a wolf,” answered Clifton, totally ignoring the now steady pull on his line as a catfish tried to take his freshly cut fishing pole off downriver.  “Huh!” exhaled John as his pole now jerked down hard towards the underside of the nearby tree trunk. Both men now turned their attention to their jerking poles.

Later, relaxing with their backs against a log sitting in the smoke of their mildly smoking fire, the two friends were still arguing good naturedly about the strange creature.  Their fishing efforts had yielded several small but very tasty catfish along with a couple of hand sized red breasted perch. Both were now feeling the relaxing effects of their full stomachs. “If it was a dog…,”Clifton said,”…not saying it was….but if it was… whose was it?”

“No idea,” Cross Toed John replied. “Besides, that doesn’t matter. He could be one of those wild ones we see from time to time.” “Have you ever seen a bushy tailed dog?” asked Clifton,” I haven’t…all of them are short haired dogs around here. No one has a bushy haired one anywhere around Teabueville… they are all short haired ones, cause the bushy haired ones get too hot and go mad in the summer times, you know that.”

“That is not true! It’s just an old woman’s tale,” John argued,” I once saw…huh oh….run!
 

A few seconds later the two friends, gasping for breath, paused halfway up the steep river bank. “Where did he come from???” Clifton almost shouted from the rush of adrenalin now charging through his veins. “I don’t know but obviously he wasn’t satisfied in just eating that dog,” John gasped out, the knuckles of his right hand turning whitish as he gripped the large protruding root of a pine growing higher up on the lip of the bank. Both men looked down at what had just a few minutes ago been a peaceful campsite, now occupied by a very large, active, and apparently still very hungry bull alligator. As they watched, the gator made short work of their remaining fish left hanging up to dry on a short rack built of cut limbs. Then, as his massive underside began to register the fact that he was laying across a bed of hot wood coals, the big gator thrashed around turning his heavy snout towards his watery refuge. Lifting himself up on his short stubby and powerful legs he lurched back towards the nearby river waters and slowly splashed his way out of the shallows settling down into the deeper water.  

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The next day, at mid morning, Clifton strode up onto the sidewalk under the low hanging porch roof of the general store of Teabueville. The locals sitting around the checkerboard barely registered his arrival. “Anyone heard any news about a red wolf being seen around here?” he asked. “Anyone missing a bushy haired dog?” called Cross Toed John as he passed down the side of the building headed for the Cow House Island trail. “Seems I heard of ole’ Sam missing his bushy tailed squirrel hunting dog…” began Pete. 

“Ohhhh….” groaned Clifton as the sound of laughter drifted back from the rear of the building.

The End
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For more info on red wolves:
You may want to check out this website for more info on the present day Satilla River system:
http://www.garivers.org/other-georgia-rivers/satilla-river.html

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