chuckled for a good few minutes over that. That Paul was a quick one. That’s for sure!
When the dust had settled over the killing zone, Paul kneeled back in and started to scoop the rest of the dirt out. He pursed his lips and nodded in satisfaction at the carnage he had reaped on his tormentors. Another line from Shakespeare drifted through his head, “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!” In this case the “Can of war.”
With enough room, he sawed away at the tap root until it was almost cut through. Then he worked away on the other main root that was left. He hoped the stump would break off now. He whistled over to Ronnie and Wooster and yelled, “Watch me now men!” Then he put his hands to the trunk to get an idea of how it felt. He pushed and it moved a good deal. He set both hands to it, firmed his shoulders and flung his body hard against the stump. It gave the slightest resistance, and then suddenly snapped back away from him and crashed to the ground. Paul never saw it coming. He hurled after the trunk and tumble to the ground on top of it in a dirty heap.
Ronnie bolted from his rocker and shrieked at the top of his lungs, “All right Mr. Compton!”
Wooster heard him and laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. Then he too stood and began to applaud.
When Paul finally sorted himself out, and stood, both Ronnie and Wooster were laughing all out and clapping. Wooster called out between guffaws, “Well done Paul! You showed it!” It wasn’t just teasing. He really was glad Paul accomplished his task.
Ronnie clapped hard and kept saying, “You did it Mr. Compton. You did it!” Something had definitely tickled him about the tree-cutting affair.
Paul began to laugh himself, and again took some bows.
Loreen came out of the garage, hearing the noise and started giggling at the sight of Wooster the eighty year old and little Ronnie Waldron standing together clapping and laughing while Paul took bows next to his hole and broken tree. She began to clap along with them as though some monumental task had been achieved. She thought to herself, “What a bunch of goof balls I live with!” And she grinned all the more.
Paul chopped the last vestiges of the roots away and pulled the stump over to the pile of branches he had made earlier. He cleaned up his tools and washed up at the utility sink. He then headed over to Wooster’s porch. As he once again sat down by the two trouble makers he said, “So I’ve been a source of enjoyment for you two this morning huh?” He gave them both a mock stern look.
Wooster said, “You’re better than TV, Paul. We were mesmerized waiting to see who’d win, right Ronnie?”
Ronnie nodded and said, “You did it Mr. Compton. You cut that tree down.”
Paul nodded his head at the boy, mussed his hair and said, “I sure did Ronnie. Couldn’t have done it without all your support either.”
Ronnie blushed a little and said, “Yeah.”
It was near twelve and after they sat for a moment, Ronnie’s mom called out the front door, “Ronnie! Lunch time!” Ronnie slid from his chair and said, “I have to go eat lunch now. Bye Mr. McDowel. Bye Mr. Compton.” He turned and headed off the porch. He said no more to either man. It was the way Ronnie was. You could get more from him, but it was in little bits. Today he just said, “Bye.” Another day he’d say, “I had fun.” Now and then he’d even say, “I love you.”
Wooster and Paul chorused after him, “Bye Ronnie.”
When he was gone, Paul settled into the empty rocker. “He’s a good boy,” he said. Mostly just saying it out loud.
Wooster nodded and said, “Yeah. He is a good boy.”
They looked at one another and smiled. This scene, with variations had been played out time and again, and would be time and again in the future. The two men understood how it was with Ronnie. They knew that what they wouldn’t get from him one day, they’d get another day. Both knew that sometimes you just had to be tenacious about the ones you love.
Dog
Marjorie Wilkins shook her head and cursed. Then she yelled to her boy Tommy to “get your lazy ass down here to breakfast!” She shook the paper out again and snuffed at the headline once more before turning the page: “Dog beaten by men.” It seems some guys had a dog they had found. It was a good dog (so they admitted to the police) and would obey them unerringly. It was friendly, and energetic, and was an all-around good pet. So, since it trusted them implicitly (having been fed and washed for months by them), it didn’t fight when they chained it securely and started to beat it to death with baseball bats for the hell of it! Marjorie ticked her tongue with anger and muttered, “They should beat those bastards with baseball bats!” She shook the paper again, and growled, “Get your ass down here this minute young man!” at her stupid seven-year-old.
As Tommy careened into the kitchen to quickly take his place, Marjorie made a point of slapping him in the head. “What the hell are you doing?” she snapped as Tommy quietly began to eat his cereal. Marjorie gave a quick lecture on how much effort she had put into pouring the bowl of Froot Loops, emphasizing certain points by wagging her finger at the boy and pounding her fist on the table. Tommy was not exactly sure why mom was mad—it was not even his normal breakfast time—but he accepted the lecture and love-swats in silence, knowing she only disciplined him because she loved him. He knew this because she told him it was that way. Other kids didn’t get disciplined because their parents didn’t give a damn. Tommy was loved.
Having returned to her paper, Marjorie began to read a few other articles but could not shake the story of the dog. Apparently the Labrador had been a stray that some guy had found wandering near his job. He wanted a dog, and the pup was not too old, so he figured he could still train it. Besides, a lab might make a good hunting dog for him and his buddies. So, he had adopted the animal, and taken it home. The dog was overjoyed. It was being fed, and washed, and petted regularly, and had developed a strong attraction to the man. It had learned to trust him. He told the police the dog would do anything he commanded it. It would come, or sit, or be quiet. It was a good dog.
But then one night the guy had gotten drunk with his buddies and they had turned on the dog. At this point in her meandering thoughts Tommy spilled some milk and needed to be corrected. “You can be so stupid! Why aren’t you careful?” Marjorie fired at him. He cleaned it up. Tommy wasn’t always like that she thought. He was such a good boy for so long. He’d sleep for hours when she had first brought him home. And he sat with her in his stroller as she gardened without making a peep. Boy, those days were gone! It seemed like Tommy was nothing but trouble now, Marjorie thought.
Anyway, the guys had called the dog one day and it had dutifully come. “And why not?” thought Marjorie—“He trusted that man!” And they had chained the dog up so it couldn’t bite or escape. And they had begun to beat it with bats. Marjorie could not imagine the anguish of that unfortunate animal! Suddenly trapped by the chains, and the one person it expected to take care of it beating it to death! It was criminal! Marjorie could not get the image out of her head. “That poor, poor dog,” she muttered. “Put your dishes in the sink!” she squawked, “How many times must I tell you?” Tommy sure was a problem now. She was going to have to teach him.
Marjorie went to the cupboard and took down the spoon. Tommy’s color went white as he watched her settle onto her chair. She glared at the boy for a moment before tapping her lap. Tommy needed no more; he slowly slid from his seat, a soft tear welling in his eye, and tread over to his mother. Without help he dropped his pants and underwear, and lay over his mother’s knees. She gently wrapped an arm around him and drew him closer to her before she began. The wood spoon sang as it whistled down onto Tommy’s bare flesh in a rhythmic pattern. Mom never held back on love thought Tommy as soft sobs sputtered from his lips.