Red was a smart dog and became my uncle's constant companion. He was also a farm dog, which meant that when he wasn't with my uncle, he was outside, on a chain connected to his dog house. My uncle trained him to hunt, mainly raccoons, which he skinned and sold for the fur for extra money. (I wondered if there were people walking around with bits of Pennsylvania trapped 'coon trimming their coats.) Red herded cows and he stood guard, alerting us to visitors. Red took his job seriously.
We loved Red. He was affectionate and loved attention. In the winter, his coat would grow thick to protect him from the cold. And in the Spring when he began to shed, he loved it when I brushed him, sending large tufts of fur blowing across the yard.
There are unspoken rules for a dog who lives on a farm, and the faster they're learned, the better off for everyone. The most important being, Thou Shalt Not Kill the Other Animals. And there were a lot of animals on the farm that required a dog's mercy: chickens, geese, cows, and ducks. Not all of the animals were a serious temptation for Red. Cows are too large, and the chickens were kept safely in a coop. But the ducks and the geese had free range.
We didn't witness the event; we didn't see the body. But the white feathers billowing across the front yard were enough evidence.
Now, farm justice is a thing. Like any system, there are rules to keep everything and everyone functioning smoothly. Everything has its role and responsibilities, including my brother and me. And including Red. Deviation from those roles, shirking of those responsibilies was met with swift punishment.
It's a serious thing for a dog to kill another resident of the farm. Mainly because once a dog tastes blood, it's a hard thing to give up. It's too easy for a domesticated dog to forget his training and revert to something instinctual and feral.
So when Red killed that duck, well, my brother and I felt apprehension and dread over what my uncle would do.
Red was lucky. He was young (i.e., trainable), he was smart (i.e., also trainable), he was useful, and he was loved. It was enough to be given a chance to learn from his mistake. One chance only.
To my brother's and my horror, my uncle tied the body of the duck around Red's neck. And left it there until it rotted off.
It was pretty awful for everyone, especially Red. And it took what felt like a very long time.
But it worked, thankfully. Red never hurt another animal. He would lay outside of his coop, and the ducks would boldly waddle up and eat his food out of the bowl in front of him. He would just watch.
Not all dogs are young, smart, and useful. And not all dogs are loved enough by those enforcers of Farm Justice to be given a second chance.
Many years later, someone dropped a dog off on our farm. It happens: someone decides they don't want a dog or cat and rather than find another home for it, they'll abandon it on someone's farm.
It was a medium-sized, non-descript yellowish dog that my brother and I named "Weiner." (We were a little older and only a little more creative.) We were excited to have a new dog. Our parents were not. But they relented and allowed us to keep her, and although they were loathe to spend money on anything pet-related, even went so far as to take her to the vet to have her spayed: the last thing we needed was more than one extra dog running around.
Unfortunately, the vet informed us that Weiner was already pregnant, much to my parents' dismay and our delight. She welped six adorable puppies. And soon the puppies were up and running around after her all over the farm. We cuddled and played with and took turns chasing and being chased.
Life was grand, until it wasn't.
And it wasn't the day we came home from school to see great billows of feathers blowing across the road, into the barn yard, into our front yard. Everywhere.
It was pure carnage. Weiner and those cute puppies had morphed into a pack of killers and slaughtered several ducks.
We were horrified, terrified, and resigned. Because we knew Farm Justice was due.
And it arrived when my father came home from work, took one look at the scene of the crime, rounded up Weiner and her pack of assassins, and shot them all behind the barn.
We were sad, but we also understood it was the inevitable sentence for the crime. And while we mourned the lost of Weiner and her cute pups, the reality was that they weren't integral to the functioning of the farm. They served no purpose, had no role, other than as playmates for my brother and me. There was not enough responsibility to counter the call of the wild. Unfortunately, they paid the price for heeding it.