Wild Dogs: Feral Ain't Friendly

By: Gertrude Butterbean © 2001-2003

Part III - Trappin' Them Thangs

(For Part I click here - for Part II click here)

We woke up the following morning and over grits, eggs, and coffee we decided to get in touch with Wilbur to get some traps. Wilbur said he ain't got none, but Cletus over across the highway had a couple of big 6-foot traps just right for catching big varmints like wild dogs. He said you put the bait in the way back, the dog smells it, crawls inside to eat, and then the door springs shut, trapping the beast.

Cletus was more than happy to let us borrow two traps cause he's always been kinda sweet on Winnie. (She ain't never returned the affection, but she did make him a Lemon Ice Box Pie to show her appreciation for the traps.)

Anyway, that evening, Winnie and I baited the traps with leftover burgers and hotdogs. Cletus said to put strychnine in the bait for humane reasons and to prevent escape, but Winnie didn't want poison no where near her pets and grandbabies. Besides, trapping them dogs in chicken wire wouldn't hurt 'em. So Winnie, my dog Fred, and me all strung beans, watched the Craftsman Truck race, and then went to sleep.

After a few hours, a loud thump followed by a yelp woke us up. Fred was growling to beat the band. We ran out and saw Cletus's hound, Cooter, in one trap and a possum in the other. Winnie called Cletus and gave him the rough side of her tongue and tellin' him that his danged huntin' dog was loose agin. In a flash, Cletus arrived, gathered up his dog and set the possum free (he said it was too skinny for eatin'). Winnie slapped him on the head and said, "Now ain't you glad I didn't poison the bait?"

He smiled real sheepish-like and then left with Cooter, promising to chain up that dog real tight. We baited the traps again, and went back to sleep.

That next morning, Winnie woke me up with a holler, "I just KNEW it!"

Outside in one of the traps snappin' and snarling was the very same white dog with dark speckled ears that Winnie saw a couple of days ago killing her chickens. Man, she was mad. I reckoned she'd strangled that dog with her bare hands if she got a chance, and looking over at that wild dog, I believed the feeling was mutual the way it was growling and snappin' at her.

I got tickled when Fred walked over, lifted his leg, and peed on the cage as if to say, "Neener, neener, y'all!"

Once Winnie threw her fit and vented her spleen, we talked about what we should do. Lookin' at that wild dog, the first thing we felt was pity, but the second thing we felt was threatened.

We called up Wilbur and told him to come and carry off this varmint. "Can't ya re'bilitate it?" he asked (not wanting to get no where near that thang).

I explained that most feral dogs are really aggressive and ain't afraid of humans like coyotes are, plus when they travel in packs, they are twice as dangerous and will attack without being provoked. They are meaner than Uncle Floyd when he's on a Night Train drunk. Wild dogs ain't a natural part of the ecosystem. They are pets that ran away, were abandoned by their owners, or they are the offspring of wild dogs.

Winnie told Wilbur that if he wanted to tame the chicken killin' dog, then he was more'n welcome to her, "We ain't got the time, patience, or want to rehabilitate this here killer."

"Take her on outta here to the fellers at the pound, Wilbur, and if this bothers your conscience so bad, then put up some flyers over at the post office to tell folks to spay and neuter their pets," I said.

Sure enough, I ain't no avenger of livestock, but daggum, I got common sense.

Y'all be safe now, ya hear?

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Copyright © 2000-2003 Gertrude Butterbean (aka Angela Gillaspie) All Rights Reserved
Revised - 05/10/03
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