Facing the Music by Larry Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

kill it on purpose, just wounded it, and let old Frank get ahold of it and get bitten in the nose because he’d heard all his life that doing that would make a squirrel dog every time if the dog had it in him. And old Frank did. He caught that squirrel and fought it all over the ground, squalling, with the squirrel balled up on his nose, bleeding, and finally killed it. After that he hated squirrels so bad he’d tree every squirrel he smelled. They killed nine opening day, one over the limit. Mr. P. was proud of old Frank.
    But last week he took old Frank out in the pasture and shot him in the head with a .22 rifle because his wife said the rabies were getting too close to home.
    Now why did I do that? Mr. P. wonders. Why did I let her talk me into shooting old Frank? I remember he used to come in here and lay down on my legs while I was watching “Dragnet.” I’d pat him on the head and he’d close his eyes and curl up and just seem happy as anything. He’d even go to sleep sometimes, just sleep and sleep. And he wouldn’t mess in the house either. Never did. He’d scratch on the door till somebody let him out. Then he’d come back in and hop up here and go to sleep.
    Mr. P. feels around under the couch to see if it’s still there. It is. He just borrowed it a few days ago, from his neighbor,Hulet Steele. He doesn’t even know if it’ll work. But he figures it will. He told Hulet he wanted it for rats. He told Hulet he had some rats in his corncrib.
    Next thing he knows, somebody’s knocking on the front door. Knocking hard, like he can’t even see the kids out in the yard and send them in to call him out. He knows who it probably is, though. He knows it’s probably Hereford Mullins, another neighbor, about that break in the fence, where his cows are out in the road. Mr. P. knows the fence is down. He knows his cows are out in the road, too. But he just can’t seem to face it today. It seems like people just won’t leave him alone.
    He doesn’t much like Hereford Mullins anyway. Never has. Not since that night at the high school basketball game when their team won and Hereford Mullins tried to vault over the railing in front of the seats and landed on both knees on the court, five feet straight down, trying to grin like it didn’t hurt.
    Mr. P. thinks he might just get up and go out on the front porch and slap the shit out of Hereford Mullins. He gets up and goes out there.
    It’s Hereford, all right. Mr. P. stops inside the screen door. The kids are still screaming in the yard, getting their school clothes dirty. Any other time they’d be playing with old Frank. But old Frank can’t play with them now. Old Frank’s busy getting his eyeballs picked out right now probably by some buzzards down in the pasture.
    â€œYe cows out in the road again,” says Hereford Mullins. “Thought I’d come up here and tell ye.”
    â€œAll right,” says Mr. P. “You told me.”
    â€œLike to hit em while ago,” says Hereford Mullins. “I’d git em outa the road if they’s mine.”
    â€œI heard you the first time,” says Mr. P.
    â€œFeller come along and hit a cow in the road,” goes on Hereford Mullins, “he ain’t responsible. Cows ain’t sposed to be in the road. Sposed to be behind a fence.”
    â€œGet off my porch,” says Mr. P.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said get your stupid ass off my porch,” Mr. P. says.
    Hereford kind of draws up, starts to say something, but leaves the porch huffy. Mr. P. knows he’ll be the owner of a dead cow within two minutes. That’ll make two dead cows, counting the one in the barn not quite dead yet that he’s already out seventy-five simoleans on.
    He goes back to the couch.
    Now there’ll be a lawsuit, probably. Herf’ll say his neck’s hurt, or his pickup’s hurt, or something else. Mr. P. reaches