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Danger in Our Midst
By Donald Sullivan
We sat on the front porch enjoying a pleasant Sunday afternoon. The sky was clear except for a few fleecy clouds floating by, and the surrounding pines whispered in a lively late spring breeze. The peaceful country scene before us gave no hint of the danger that was lurking in our midst, ready to strike.
Danny, our two-year-old, was playing in the sandbox, carrying sand from one corner of the sandbox to the other. Bo, our big German Shepherd, lay nearby dozing in the warm spring sunshine.
I took a sip of iced tea and leaned back in the deck chair. "Old Bo's really taken to Danny," I said. "Follows him wherever he goes."
"I'm glad," Helen replied, "I've never mentioned it, but when Danny came along I was more than a little worried that Bo might be jealous. Some dogs are, you know."
"I've even heard of dogs attacking kids out of jealousy," I said, "but we sure as heck don't have to worry about Bo. I'm satisfied he'd give his life for Danny. You'd never find a more faithful dog."
"Or a better watchdog," she added. "He's really good protection, even if he's getting a little old."
I stood up and stretched. "Speaking of protection, I think I'll try out my new .38 revolver. I'll go around to the back yard and shoot at some cans."
"I know you've been itching to play with your new toy. Pete, be careful, okay? Guns scare me."
"Don't worry. I'm afraid of the things myself. You can bet I'll be real careful."
Helen was right. I'd been itching to try out the revolver. Besides, I needed the practice; I'd never owned a gun before. I'd been trying for months to persuade Helen that we should buy a gun--from the time her uncle had died and left her the property, and we'd moved out here in the country.
She'd argued that it was safer out here than the apartment we rented in the city. But her favorite argument was to remind me of the latest shooting accident in the news.
"You're jumping to conclusions without knowing all the facts," I would always reply. "The news tells just enough to make gun owners look bad. They skip a lot of facts."
And she would always remind me that I always said that. She finally relented, however, and I found a.38 at a bargain price at the Downtown Pawn Shop.
I chose a spot on the east side of the yard, where I would be shooting into miles of nothing but thick woods. I placed an empty tomato can on a wooden fence post and backed off about fifteen paces. I raised the pistol, took aim, and fired. The can didn't move. I fired again. The can still didn't move.
This was not as easy as I thought it would be. But what the heck, this was my first experience with a gun. Having lived in the city all my life, and worked at nothing more dangerous than managing an office, I'd never had any need for a gun.
As I raised the pistol for a third shot, I heard a jangling sound. I thought my ears were ringing from the noise of the gunshots, but then realized it was the phone. As I ran toward the back door, I heard Helen calling.
"I've got it," she shouted, "it's probably Mom."
I went back to the fence. I decided that I'd move a little closer to the target and gradually increase the distance as my shooting improved. I stepped off ten paces. I raised the pistol, took aim, and fired. This time the can went flying. Feeling proud of myself, I retrieved the can and placed it back on the fence post.
As I moved back into position, I suddenly heard loud, snarling sounds coming from the front yard. It sounded like Bo. I remember thinking that was strange; Bo never made a fuss about anything unless a stranger or a wild animal approached. I heard the front door slam as Helen ran into the front yard, and then I heard her scream.
As I ran toward the front yard, I met Bo coming around the corner of the house. Blood was dripping from his jaws. I was shocked, trying to deny what I was seeing with my own eyes. Bo, the dog I trusted and loved, had attacked my son. In a blind rage, I aimed the gun at the dog and fired. Bo yelped and fell.
I sped to the front yard to find Helen holding Danny, apparently unharmed. I stood there for a moment, confused.
"What...what happened?"
"A copperhead," she said, still shaken. "It was only a few feet from Danny."
"He's not hurt? But what about..."
"I've checked him over, Pete. He's okay. Bo killed the snake before it reached Danny. You'd better go check Bo to see if the snake bit him."
I spotted the mangled, lifeless snake lying in the sandbox. The blood seemed to drain from my head. Dear God. Bo saved Danny's life, and I shot him.
"I...I thought Bo had attacked Danny," I stammered.
"Lord help me. I shot him."
I turned and ran back toward the front yard. I spotted Bo lying in the spot where I had shot him. Tears running down my cheeks, I knelt down beside him. Sobbing uncontrollably now, I stroked his body. "Bo, what have I done...what on Earth have I done?"
I was so distraught that I almost failed to notice a slight movement. Bo was alive! Thank heavens; he was unconscious, but alive and breathing.
I rushed into the house and dialed the vet's emergency number.
The vet found that Bo had suffered only a grazing wound from the bullet, but the copperhead had bitten him on the left rear leg. The vet treated the dog and kept him overnight for observation.
A few weeks later, Bo was as good as new. He became the most spoiled dog in Jefferson County; nothing was too good for him.
As for me, the near-tragedy taught me a valuable lesson: wait until the facts are known before making a decision. In other words--as I have often told Helen--don't jump to conclusions.
***THE END***
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