A Boy and His Dog
Summer of 1965, Northwest Arkansas
By Ken Bingham
I was 10 when Kingo came to live with us. He was about nine months old, still a pup yet nearly grown. A short-haired German Shepard he was, with a beautiful, tawny brown coat and a black muzzle that made him look like an unshaven hobo dog.
Have you ever seen a dog smile? Some of you will know what I’m talking about. Those of you who don’t, take my word for it, they do smile. Kingo smiled all the time, tail always wagging, just wanting to be with me.
Ever noticed how little a dog asks of its owner? Just some food, water, a place to sleep, an occasional pat on the head and they’ll do anything for you. He’ll guard you while you sleep, protect you with his very life. We’ve all heard the stories of the faithful canine that lays at his dying master’s side, licking his wounds. Yes, dogs are special.
We lived miles from the nearest neighbors in the Arkansas hills. During the summer months I was pretty much by my self. I would never play paper dolls or make mud pies with my sisters. After breakfast Kingo and I would be off to the woods to explore, being gone all day most of the time. He was my best and only friend and the adventures we had! You see, we could communicate mentally. Don’t laugh, it’s true. Together we knew every rabbit trail, every ground-hogs’ den. The woods were our kingdom.
There was a type of tree that grew back then, of the elm family, we called them chick-a-pens. They grew a spiny cluster that contained the tastiest nuts on God’s green earth. We’d often spend the day gathering and shelling these tasty morsels and eating to our content. Sometimes we’d walk for miles to some large farm ponds with a cane fishing pole and a mess kit, some cooking oil, and catch a mess of giant bullfrogs. We’d build a small campfire and fry up the frog legs and eat some watercress with them, washed down with icy cold spring water.
Kingo taught me to see the magic. There was a remote low valley, far from any roads, where giant ferns grew and the musky scent of ancient rotting logs and stumps hung heavy in the air. This is where the little people lived. Though I never saw one for myself, Kingo knew they were there, and I believed him. We would tiptoe through the valley with a reverence so as not to disturb the wee folk.
But the magic and the innocence were not to last forever. You see, Kingo also had a primal killer streak. Not his fault; as with all animals, it’s in their makeup.
One day, toward the end of summer, Kingo took up with a distant neighbor’s dog. A bad influence I’m sure. Together they marauded a turkey grower’s farm, killing several prize breed toms. The owner was expectedly upset and he spoke to my dad about the event. He said if the animal was destroyed he wouldn’t ask my dad to pay for the loss of several hundred dollars. The code of the hills is that a destructive animal cannot, will not be tolerated, and it’s the responsibility of the owner to administer execution.
My older brother was 17 and couldn’t wait till deer season to see what his new 303 British deer rifle would do to a solid flesh and bone target. He volunteered to be the executioner. I was fully aware of the code of the hills and could accept the outcome. I was told it would help me to grow up and that he was just an animal and I would have to learn to live with it. But still, when you’re only 10 and you watch as your only and best friend gets his heart blown out….
I didn’t cry, I just felt dry inside, like a barren arid void was spreading inside. A void that felt nothing for anyone or anything. I saw the crimson streak down the beautiful tawny fur, the eyes lifeless and glazed over, and the smile … the smile he had was gone … forever.
As I buried my friend I took a first giant step toward what I call a stone soul. A place that would stay with me and grow even more through my self-destructive teenage years and far into adulthood.
I can think about this now, and write about it here. It’s been a long, painful journey back from that arid place. At least now I can look back through the misty folds of time and see a boy and his dog, seeking adventures and dining on chick-a-pens.
Ken Bingham is a production technician/writer/photographer and native of Northwest Arkansas. He writes short stories, poetry, and historical nonfiction about the area, and has two novels in the works.
Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, December 8th, 2006 | Email This PostThis entry was posted on Friday, December 8th, 2006 at 12:03 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
9 Responses to “A Boy and His Dog”
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December 9th, 2006 at 3:06 pm
Ken,
The senseless destruction of your pet saddened me. It’s beyond my comprehension how people can kill innocent animals (and they are innocent). I do not understand hunting, let alone the “code of the hills” you spoke of in your story. I’m sorry for the loss of Kingo, and for the fact that you had to watch it happen — especially at such a young, impressionable age. Animals should be treasured — they have much to teach us. Thank you for sharing your story.
December 10th, 2006 at 12:56 pm
Gary, thank you for your understanding and comment. I realise it may be hard to understand if it’s something you have not grown up with. I feel man should be the caretaker of the animals. This means nurturing and protecting as well as helping to keep a proper balance. Sine the natural balance of nature has been long since disrupted everywhere by mans presence, it is his responsibility to maintain this caretaker stewardship. Sometimes this means hunting. But I know what you’re saying, we can learn so much from animals as the natives did in the old way and even in our modern times. As far as pets goes, there too we are responsibile for their actions. In the time and setting of my story , there were no humane societies or centers to take wayward pets to have them euthanized and there it became the owners responsibility. The point I was trying to make is; due to the manner of our environment, sometimes the sacrifices and hard lessons learned can have a negative impact on us for many years or even the rest of our lives. But it can be overcome, and we can be wiser for it. But the memories are precious and all we may have left of that time. Thanks again, Ken
December 12th, 2006 at 11:54 am
Ken-
Your story reminded me of my first dog, “Brownie,” who was either an English Setter or Springer Spaniel. I was only 4 years old, and my father was Sheriff of the county, up in the northcountry of Michigan.
We had another Springer, as well as several big bloodhounds that were used for tracking any potential escapees from the local prison.
At any rate, and for some reason which I do not recall, it was decided that Brownie had to go. (Perhaps he was a stray, whom my parents had adopted for a short time; whatever the reason, they found a home for him on a farm 45 miles away.) I recall our taking him there on a Sunday and leaving him at this new home.
I was pretty upset, as this dog meant alot to me–as did yours. At any rate, I thought I had seen the last of him. And we did have the other dogs around.
Monday morning, I as descended the stairs to breakfast, there at the foot of the stairs and at the front door stood Brownie! Somehow, he had travelled on foot back home, passing through several small cities and covering nearly fifty miles overnight.
Regardless of his feat, and unfortunately, a slightly hurt eye, I assume that he was returned to the farm the next day. I didn’t see him again.
Hard to recall now, sixty years later what this all means, but I remember it well…I did get to ride on the back of one of the big bloodhounds up the stairs to the kitchen table for my 5th birthday.
December 13th, 2006 at 6:12 pm
Ken, Great story pardner. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do! It sure doesn\’t make it easy though. This story rings somewhat of the \”Yearling\” and of course \”Old Yeller\”. Timeless classics! Your story can only but inspire us to treasure those old memories. \”Listen, can you hear Old Dan and Little Ann bayin after those coons in \”Where the Red Fern Grows?\” Your Friend, Dave
December 16th, 2006 at 6:28 am
Douglas, I’m glad to hear about your memories of childhood pets. Yes dogs can be very resourceful and determined and their loyalty is unmatched. They were right when they said “mans best friend”. Thanks for your reply
Dave, thank you for your comments. I see you’re a fellow who can relate to the story. The movies you’ve mentioned are all great classics, especially “Where the red fern grows” that was filmed not a hundred miles from where I grew up. Cheers and thanks again. KEN
January 31st, 2007 at 11:47 am
Dear Ken, your story moved me for many reasons. The obvious, of course, the loss of your dog, but more so the loss of your friend, and the void it left in your heart. My father had a dog, Skippy who endured, a not as painful fate as Kingo, but still my dad can not speak of Skippy with out getting emotional…and that was many moons ago. During those times, you described, I thought to myself how wonderful to go play in the woods (I am a tomboy at heart) without worry or mind of being kidnapped. In one sense the by gone days sound sweet and uncomplicated, yet in another ,they ring calous and insensitive. My father has stories of his experiences in the orphanage where he lived until he was seven. Difficult stuff.
I am a writer now, but have worked as a RN, with older folks who share amazing stories. Having an Irish heritage, stories are like water…I need them! Really enjoyed your style and look forward to reading more of your work.
Karen
April 20th, 2007 at 2:41 am
My former husband, Ronnie Pathkiller used to write short stories with his good friend Ken Bingham in Rogers AR. Are you him? Please drop me an email if it’s you. (suzanne@echorider.com)
/Sue
April 22nd, 2008 at 9:51 am
I am so lost my son 15 raise his walker coon dog from a pup hunting him every night he could he was so proud of the job he had done. He would take him to hunt with grown men and win i can’t tell you how much he loved this dog and we awoke this morning to fine he had gotten out of his pin and go hit my a car and had died see this man had gave him a dog to train with his dog Buck and the new dog dug out of the pin and buck followed. My son is so heart broken how do i help him what to i say i was looking for a pome that talked about the love and bond between a boy and his dog any advice?
June 12th, 2008 at 10:45 pm
hi, I want to say to you some things about animals. First time cows, they are very importand
for people and they are so nice animals. Second one vild animals; they are also imprtance for
the naturel world. i watch so time documentary TV , and like real animal life. some animal
eatin other animals, but should be it for the naturel life. Anyway, thanks and love animals