Chapter XLIV: Little John

ABOUT 1910 A FINE OLD BLACK WOMAN who had done some work for me came to ask if I would hire her grandson. She said it made no difference what I paid him. All she wanted was to get him off the streets after school and into a good Christian household. I took John on and he proved very helpful to Ruby with the daily chores. He was respectful and had good manners, even at just ten years of age.

I took John with me on calls, to help with changing tires, which happened quite frequently in those days. One Saturday in the fall I took him with me on a bird hunt. We went nine miles out on White's Creek Pike to the farm of one of my patients. The hills there were so steep—it was a marvel to me that anyone could cultivate them— but the two respectable cornfields that faced us seemed well enough along. I put Frank into one of them and he soon came to attention at a point near the very middle.

Little John stood about 100 feet up the hill. When I walked in to flush, only one bird came up and I shot him. As it fell, Frank bounded forward, as he was trained to do. But instead of bringing me the bird, that irascible dog (a fine Labrador retriever, all in all, black as smut and smart as a whip) began to eat it. I yelled to him to stop. There was no tree or fence against which I could lean my gun, so in the frustration of Frank's misbehavior, I did what I never did before and never have done since: I laid my gun on the ground without setting the safety. The ground was rough and the gun lay pointing uphill with its muzzle in a slight depression.

I caught Frank and reclaimed my bird. After giving that dog a gentle scolding, then I proceeded to give him a good thrashing. When I turned him loose, he circled about in a frantic sort of state, eventually jumping high into the air and coming down hard on his hind feet. Frank landed squarely within the trigger guard of my gun, which promptly discharged. Instantly there was a cry from up the hill and I ran to find that six or seven shot had struck John in the scalp. One had struck his forehead about an inch above the eye.

Of course, there was no more hunting that day. I could not have hit a bird sitting on a fence post twenty feet in front of me.

On the way home, I kept telling John that he could now brag about something truly unique, something that no other person in the world could claim in comparison. Namely, he'd been shot by a dog.

As soon as we reached Nashville, I took John to one of my colleagues who advised strongly against surgery of any sort, not on any of the shot. If left alone, said this surgeon, there would be no scarring or permanent disfiguration. The #8 buckshot were small enough to never be noticed.


TO THE TOP >>