I woke up this morning thinking about Weeker. He is a character that I used in the stories about Etta and her family. Weeker was the kind of dog that most people would not choose to own. His pit bull nature and ugly disposition did not make him particularly lovable.
He ran free over the countryside, ate food from scrap bowls left for other dogs and had progeny on every farm in the area. Thankfully most of the pups did not inherit his cantankerous nature but most did get the hideous gene. Pups were born with rat tails, very small ears and eyes that seemed to look out the sides of their heads. Weeker was a very busy dog.
One of the puppies turned up on the pig farm across the road from Weeker’s house. He came to be know as Squeakie. The pigs in the back of the house would run to the far corner of the pen when they saw Weeker and Squeakie coming. The small swimming pool that the mining company had built for the children was not even safe from the dogs. They would lay in ambush, jump in the pool and swim toward mother’s with small children herding them into the corner. It seems the two were a formidable team.
Their bad habits increased with each passing week. In the summer of Squeakie first year he started chasing automobiles on the highway that ran near the mining company silos. His papa loved the new idea and joined in. Passing cars swerved to avoid the dogs as they bit at tires and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before there would be one less dog to contend with.
The small grocery store that stood by the roadway was busy on the day that a beautiful car happened to knock Squeakie over and stun him for a few minutes. They heard the squeal when the dog hit the bumper. Each in their turn looked out the window as the car driver leapt from his car and lifted the dog in his arms. They stood in silence when he asked if anyone owned the dog. As the man drove away with the unconscious dog on the front seat they returned to their business. Only a few were aware that Weeker had jumped into the backseat of the car when the man grabbed a blanket to cover the injured puppy.
I suppose we should have told him the dog belonged to Buzzard. A small woman standing near the mailboxes shuffled her letters. Well, she said, I would have said something but I didn’t want to meddle.
Everyone in the room nodded their heads. If they wondered where Weeker had gone, they never said so nor did they ever looked for him. They could finally swim in peace!