I put the hanky (with Aunt Carrie’s dime inside it) into his hand, grabbed the soap, and ran out the door. The man just couldn’t say a word.
There went my ride on the merry-go-round. Into a bar of soap. But I was too rushed to care. Mr. Tanner had a rag and in no time I got Pinky as clean as Christmas. Most of the water I managed to put on myself, and I was soaked through. And there was so much stink still on my hands, in spite of all the soap and water, that I figured I’d never would be able to eat a noon meal.
Mr. Tanner said that I took so long putting a scrub to Pinky that we’d never get there in time. But we did.
The kids were walking around an open ring, and each one had a pig. One boy had a real good-to-look-at Poland China, as white as Pinky but not as big. A girl who was taller than I was had a Spotted Poland, and a boy with red hair and lots of freckles had a fine looking Hampshire. It was coal black, with a white belt around it at the shoulder. Had it been a calf, it could of been a sister to Bob and Bib.
Some of the pigs were acting up a bit; not staying in line, and squealing all the time they was handled by the 4-H judges. The circle was just about whole when we got there, and Mr. Tanner almost threw me and Pinky into it just as another man closed up the gate.
My face was wet with the sweat of hurry. It feels worse, Papa always said, than the sweat of work. I didn’t have a hanky to use, so as I stood there, I put my hand up to my brow. And right then I got such a whiff of pig manure I thought I’d pass out. Everything I ever ate went sour and wanted to come up my gullet. The judges were coming my way, but it just didn’t matter. All the noise of Rutland Fair, and all the music and dust of the place just seemed to float off in a big whirly dream. I didn’t need no ride on a merry-go-round, as all of Rutland was spinning about my head and taking me with it.
One of my eyes was closed shut. But the one that was part open got a quick look-see at a judge putting something on Pinky. Something blue. But when my whole entire world was green, I couldn’t of cared. I just couldn’t of cared if they’d put a pig sticker into both of us. The judge said something to me, and that’s when I did it. I just leaned my head over, pointed my face at all the little square chips of sawdust, and threw up. Some of it even went on his shoe.
The merry-go-round went a whole lot faster, and I’d a fall off for certain. But some big strong hands reached out and caught me, or over I’d a gone.
“He’s my charge,” I heard Mr. Tanner say. “I’ll take him.”
Next thing I knew, we were all back at Pinky’s pen. I was lying in fresh straw just outside it. Pinky was inside. Mr. Tanner was standing close by, and Mrs. Tanner was washing my face with a clean towel.
“How could you let him get so dirty?” was all she seemed to say to her husband. Mr. Tanner bent down and put his hand under my chin.
“Rob, how do you feel?”
“Hungry,” I said.
“Look,” he said, pointing at Pinky’s neck. “Just look here.”
It was a blue ribbon! And on it, in gold letters, it said:
FIRST PRIZE FOR BEST-BEHAVED PIG
“It’s just about noon,” he said. “Let’s all put on the feed bag. What say, Bessie?”
Bess Tanner just sighed. “Start without me. I don’t want to put anything on right now. I just want to take off this cussed corset.”
Chapter
11
“Pinky won a blue ribbon, Papa.”
That was the first thing I said when Ben Tanner shook me awake that night to tell me I was home. I must of slept all the way, because I didn’t recall much of the trip back. Soon as it got dark I just went to sleep, sitting there between Mr. and Mrs. Tanner and holding on tight to the blue ribbon.
“Pinky won a blue ribbon. It’s for the best-behaved pig,” I said.
“And,” said Mr. Tanner, “he ought to have a second one for best-behaved boy. He worked my oxen like he was born with a wand in his hand.”
“How were his manners?” asked Papa.
“Thank you, Mr. Tanner,” I said quickly. “And thank you, Mrs. Tanner. I had a very good time.”
“Bless you, Rob,” she said.
“The stock’ll be here soon as the Fair closes,” Mr. Tanner said.
“I’ll send the boy for his pig,” Papa said, “and we’re beholding to both you folks, Brother Tanner.”
“We to you, Haven. I got offered five hundred for my yearling oxen. Five hundred dollars, and not even half growed. Thanks to your boy who helped born ’em, and work ’em at the Fair. But I won’t sell them two.”
“I’m glad he did you proud,” Papa said.
Ben Tanner turned his grays and off they went, Bess holding her hat on with the flat of her hand. I just stood there and watched them go up road into the dark, and until I could no longer hear their rig.
“Good neighbors,” I said.
“The best a man could have,” said Papa. “Benjamin Tanner will stand without hitching.”
Mama came running out of the house and toward the barn, holding out her hands. I ran to her and hugged her clean and warm and hard as I could. Aunt Carrie was there, too. I wanted to tell her (as I hugged her) as to how I spent the ten cents that she gave me, but I thought better of it. Ten cents for a used piece of saddle soap was a dear price.
“Mama,” I said, “looky here. Look at Pinky’s blue ribbon! She won it.”
“Of course she won it,” Mama said. “She’s the prettiest pig in Learning.”
“First prize,” I said. I remembered in a faint sort of way that the other pigs that the kids had raised all had blue ribbons, too. But no matter. I was sure that only Pinky had won first prize.
“She’ll be home in a few days,” I said.
“I can’t wait,” said Papa, and Mama smiled.
“Into the house with you,” Mama said. “It’s way past your bedtime and you’ll never get up for chores.” That sort of stopped me.
“Papa? You did all my chores today.”
“Sure did. And butchered hogs besides.”
“Thank you, Papa. I’m beholding.”
“I accept your debt,” Papa said, “and come ’morrow, you’ll work double.”
“That’s meet and right,” I said. “I already owe you for the sorghum.”
“Three bags full,” said Papa. “I expect payment after your pig has a first litter.”
Mama said, “You men folk don’t know when it’s time for bed. How about some pie, Rob?”
“Please,” I said.
We all sat around the lammis table in the kitchen, eating blackberry pie, and hearing me talk about Rutland Fair. I told all I could tell and made up the rest, and never left out a word about the two main events: the showing of Bob and Bib, and the blue ribbon for Pinky.
I never let on that I got a touch of the vapors and lost all my breakfast on the judge’s shoe. A tale like that would only distress Mama and Aunt Carrie, so why tell people what they don’t cotton to hear? Besides, they was enough good things to jaw on. Like when the whole state of Vermont watched me work the oxen in the show ring, and how the man shouted my name. I stood up and gave a real close copy of just how he done it. Even marched around the kitchen in a circle. Three times, just like at Rutland.
“Rutland,” said Papa. “I never went there, boy or man. And here you go, all that way by your lonesome with the neighbors.”
“It’s not so big,” I said. “What sets you back is the noise. It was as noisy at night as it was in the morning. And during Fair week, I guess it’s like a big brass band that can’t stop playing. Goes all the while.”
“Just like a mouth I know,” said Papa, “that’s got blackberry all over it.”
We all got a good laugh on that, before I went over to the sink pump and washed off. It sure was good to be home, and it was hard to believe that I was gone less than a day. It felt like I’d been to a star.
I’d a talked on about Rutland for the whole night through, but Mama chased me upstairs to bed. Once I was under the covers, she
came into my room and kissed me goodnight I was just about near asleep by the time she tiptoed out and shut the door.
“How’s the traveler?” I heard Papa ask.
“Back,” Mama said. “Back from a dream.”
During the night, there was noise outside in the hen coop. I heard the hens cackle and scold. I saw a lit lantern in the upstairs hall, and then all was quiet. I tried my holy best to wake up, but I just couldn’t.
Right after I shut my eyes it was chore time. Daisy had to be milked and watered and fed. Solomon the same. Except only a fool would put a pail under him. I was pouring the milk for separating (to get the cream off) when I saw Papa leaving the hen coop with a dead hen.
“Weasel,” Papa said. “And hardly no mark on her.”
“Chicken for supper, Papa?”
“Yup. Say, you want to see something?”
“Sure.”
Papa took me into the tackroom. Hanging on a peg was a burlap sack that moved around a bit. Quite a bit, the closer we got.
“What you got, Papa?”
“What I got is that weasel. First one I ever could corner and sack. He’s really got a mouthful of mean teeth.”
“Can I look?”
“Later. When I reason out what to do with him. He’s caused me too much grief to kill without a ceremony.”
“You aim to let that weasel go free?”
“Not likely.”
“Papa, I was at Mrs. Bascom’s last week.”
“So?”
“You know her hired man, Ira Long?”
“Heard his name.”
“Well, he’s got a bitch terrier. I seen her when I went to thank Mrs. Bascom for asking the Tanners to take me to Rutland.”
“Full growed?”
“I’d say so, Papa. But real young.”
“After we breakfast, boy, you run down there and tell Brother Long that we got a weasel to try his dog on. And he’s welcome to it.”
“Sure will. I never see a dog get weaseled.”
An hour later, a horse and rig pulled into our lane. On it was Ira Long and me and his dog, Hussy. She was a sweet little dog, and all the way home, as I was holding her, I wondered how well she’d fare against a weasel.
Papa was there to meet us, and he gave Ira his hand.
“Haven Peck,” he said. “We’re glad you could pay us call, Brother.”
“Ira Long. I already know your son.”
“Most folks do.” Both the men laughed. I don’t know why but I laughed, too.
“He’s a good ’un,” said Ira.
Papa looked at the small gray-and-white terrier that I was still holding in my arms. “You tried that bitch on weasel yet?”
“No. But I hear you got one.”
“A big one,” Papa said. “Mean as sin.”
“Papa,” I said, “why do folks weasel a dog? Is it for the sport of it?”
“No,” Papa said, “there’s earthy reason. ’Cause once you weasel that dog, that dog’ll hate weasels until her last breath. She’ll always know when there’s one around and she’ll track it to its hole, dig it out, and tear it up. A man who keeps a hen house got to have a good weasel dog.”
“That’s the truth of it,” Ira said. “Every weasel in the county will keep wide of my little Hussy.”
When the three of us walked into the tackroom I was still carrying Hussy. Soon as we got there, that burlap jumped around like it was loco. And I could feel Ira’s little terrier shaking in my arms. Just like she knew what was going to happen, and what she’d got to do to stay alive. She was whining, too. Just loud enough to hear.
“I got an idea she’ll make a good weasel dog,” Ira said.
“We’ll see,” said Papa.
He picked the sack off its peg. Inside, the weasel was hissing and spitting. He couldn’t see a dog, and she couldn’t see him. But they knew. They sure knew of each other.
“I’ll get a barrel,” I said. Handing the bitch to Ira, I ran up to the cellar where there was a good size apple barrel that was empty and waiting for this year’s orchard. It had a wooden lid on it which made it perfect for what we wanted it for. I set the barrel on its side. Holding the lid under one arm, I rolled the barrel down to where the men were waiting. Ira was holding his terrier, and Papa had the neck of the burlap bag tight in his hand. I stood the barrel up on its end, mouth open, and holding the lid ready.
“In you go, Hussy,” Ira said, placing his little bitch inside the barrel. “You give him what for.”
She sure was shaking, that dog. It made the whole barrel sort of tremble. Papa came forward with the sack.
“Is your lid ready?” he said to me.
“All set.”
“Soon’s I drop him from the sack, you lid that barrel and keep it lidded, hear?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Without more ado, Papa just emptied the sack. He poured the weasel right down inside the barrel on top of the dog. I slammed the lid into place. I could hardly hold it on, and Ira come over to keep the barrel upright. Papa, too.
We heard a lot of scratching and chasing and biting inside the dark of that barrel. The dog was bigger, but the weasel sure had the darkness on his side. To be honest, I thought a fight between a dog and a weasel was going to be a real excitement. But I hated every second of it. The whole thing seemed senseless to me and I was mad at myself for standing there to hold down the barrel lid. I even felt the shame of being a part of it. From the look on Papa’s face I could see that maybe he wasn’t enjoying it so much either.
At last all the noise stopped. There wasn’t a sound. Papa nodded to me, and I slipped the lid a crack, just enough to let some light in so we could look down inside. Then we heard the dog cry. It was a whine that I will always remember, the kind of sound that you hear but never want to hear again.
Ira pulled the lid of the barrel away and looked inside. The weasel was dead. Torn apart into small pieces of fur, bones, and bloody meat. There was blood all over the inside of that barrel, from top to bottom. The dog was alive, but not much more. One of her ears was about tore off and she was wet with blood. She just danced her little feet, splattering the pool of blood in the bottom of the barrel. And making that sound in her throat that almost begged someone to end her misery.
Ira reached down to lift her out of the barrel. As he picked her up, her teeth bared and she ripped open his hand. He gave out a yell and dropped her on the ground. One of her front paws was chewed up so bad, it wasn’t even a paw anymore. All of the bones in that foot must have been split to pieces. It was nothing but a raw stump.
“Kill her,” I said.
“What?” said Ira, his hand bleeding into the cuff of his shirt.
“She’s dying,” I said. “And if you got any mercy at all in you, Ira Long, you’ll do her in. Right now. She killed the weasel. Isn’t that what you wanted to have her do, with all its sport? She’s crazy with hurt. And if you don’t kill her, I will.”
“Mind your tongue, boy. You’re talking to your elders,” said Ira.
“The boy’s right,” Papa said. “I’ll get a gun.”
Until Papa come back with the rifle, little Hussy just lay on the ground and whimpered. Papa put a bullet in her, and her whole body jerked to a quivering stillness. Nobody said a word. The three of us just stood there, looking down into the dust at what once was a friendly little pet.
“I swear,” Papa said. “I swear by the Book of Shaker and all that’s holy, I will never again weasel a dog. Even if I lose every chicken I own.”
I got a spade out of the tool room, and dug a small hole, and buried her under the timothy grass, near an apple tree. I even got down on my knees and said her a prayer.
“Hussy,” I said, “you got more spunk in you than a lot of us menfolk got brains.”
Chapter
12
Pinky came home.
I had her blue ribbon pinned up on the wall over my bed, and took it out to show it to her. She sniffed at it and that was about all.
She just snorted to that, and I was glad she wasn’t getting too filled with herself. A swell-headed pig would be hard to live with. I ran into the house and put the blue ribbon back on its pin over my bed. When I got back outside, Papa was home from butchering. His clothes were a real mess.
“Papa,” I said, “after a whole day at rendering pork, don’t you start to hate your clothes?”
“Like I could burn ’em and bury ’em.”
“But you wear a leather apron when you kill pork. How come you still get so dirty?”
“Dying is dirty business. Like getting born.”
“I never thought of it that way. But I’m sure glad that nobody’ll kill Pinky. She’s going to be a brood sow, isn’t she Papa?”
He didn’t answer. He just walked over to the fence and looked at my pig. Swinging his leg over the rails, he knelt down beside her and run his hand along her back. He looked at her rump real close, smelled her, and felt her backside with his hand.
“What’s wrong, Papa? Is Pinky ailing?”
“No, not ailing. Just slow. She should of had her first heat by now. Weeks ago. We could a bred her to boar at the third. Maybe she’s barren.”
“Barren? You mean …”
“I don’t know for sure, boy. Just maybe she’s barren.”
“Like Aunt Matty?”
“Yes. But that’s not to talk of. You’d hurt Matty if’n you said barren to her face. The hurt’s inside her. No need to fester it.”
“And you think Pinky’s barren? Tell me true, Papa.”
“Yes, boy. I think she be.”
“No,” I said. “No! No!”
My fists were doubled and I hit the top rail of the fence, harder and harder. Until my hands started to hurt.
“Rob, that won’t change nothing. You got to face what is.”
He climbed over the fence and walked to the barn, his tall lean body moving as if it knew more work would be done that day, tired or no.
“Rob!” Mama called to me from the kitchen door, and I left Pinky and ran up the hill to where she was standing, drying her hands on her apron.
A Day No Pigs Would Die Page 7