A Small Death on the Ranch Road

“Rocky’s got something,” my son says slowly.

We are in the battered old ranch golf cart. I am giving David driving lessons on the gravel road.  It is early afternoon on July 3rd; we’re due back at the main house in 15 minutes. Independence Day Eve at the ranch, we make banana ice cream.  The family has done this every July since at least the first FDR administration, if not earlier – and David is looking forward to turning the crank on our ancient ice cream maker.

Right now, David is looking forward all right, straight at the caretaker’s rambunctious coonhound. Rocky nips, barks, and circles a dark object in the middle of the road.  The object moves, stops, moves again.

I tell David to stop the cart and set the brake.

 We are city boys, David and I, but I grew up in these hills, and I’m pretty sure I know what needs to happen.  The question is not whether nine is too young to witness what I will do.  In the country, nine is not too young for blood.  My son is immensely tender-hearted, though; he loves Rocky, he loves the ranch chickens, and has named the calves in the fields.   Is he ready?

If he’s not ready, do I want to risk upsetting him so much he can’t delight in making ice cream?

“David, Rocky has a small animal he’s tormenting.  This may be hard to see.  Do you want to go back to the house?”

David looks confused, then resolute.  “We need to see, daddy.”  He is out of the cart, running towards the dog he adores.  He cries out: “Rocky, stop! Stop!”

The ground squirrel is still very much alive, though Rocky has broken its spine. The rear legs are splayed out; the backbone is visible through blood and matted fur.  On his two remaining usable legs, the creature pivots towards us, manages a chirp.  The eyes are wide – the end is certain, but the little one is willing to fight on. 

My son stares at the squirrel, then at the dog.  “Rocky!” He cries again, and I hear the rage and the bewilderment in his voice. Rocky is his friend.  That his friend would do this, and for sport?  I remember the first time I saw an animal I love kill another creature out of instinct rather than self-defense; I remember the anger and the anguish.

“We need to take it to the vet, daddy, right now!”  The words are filled with hope, but my son’s tone makes clear that he knows that’s impossible, for a host of reasons. 

I shout at Rocky to get away, and the dog, confused, withdraws ten yards and waits, emitting a bark that is half-eagerness to please, half-annoyance at having his play interrupted.

I look my boy in the eyes. The words are familiar, because our ranch man, George, said them to me nearly 50 years ago as we stood solemnly over a hawk with a broken wing, 20 yards from where we stand now.

George has been gone since 1981.  So, have all my ancestors who did as I am about to do.  They are not here, but they are present all around me, and they speak through me.

“Son, I’m going to go the barn and get a shovel.  I’m going to kill the squirrel so he won’t be in any more pain.  It’s the only thing we can do.  You can stay, or you can go, and either is okay with me, but I need to do this.”

I am very calm, because I am channeling George and my forebears.  These are not really my words.

David is calm too, and he too is ready to step into a role that has been written for country children for eons. “I’ll stay and keep Rocky away,” my son says.  His voice sounds… older.

I haven’t killed anything other than an insect in more than 20 years.  In about 1994, I deliberately drove a Ford pickup over a rattlesnake sunning itself on our ranch road.  I backed up and drove over it again, and back and forth again, until I was sure any suffering was over. I did that from pure instinct – rattlers are part of the natural order of things, but when they draw too close to where we sleep and play and garden… aim for the head.

I go to the barn, find the shovel. I’m still not sure whether I should let David see.

When I was ten, two of our horses got out of their corral early morning, wandered onto the road, and fell through the metal cattle guard.  One was somehow able to climb out; the other, Ginger, got stuck and broke two of her legs. I heard her terrible sounds, and I wanted to go see and help, but my grandmother kept me away.  Our ranch man, George, had a shotgun, and did the only possible thing.  I remember two blasts, nearly a minute apart; I remember the man who came with the big truck to winch out the body and take it away.  I remember wondering what happened between the first shot, and the second.  It was the stuff of nightmares for weeks afterwards.

When I get back to David, he is sitting in the golf cart.  My son has wrangled Rocky into the cart as well, and David has a firm grip on his collar.  The dog whines.  The squirrel is attempting to drag itself across the road towards the high grass, but can only manage a few inches before the pain is too much. One of the little ribs has broken through as well. 

They say that when the inevitable comes, prey animals experience some sort of natural anesthetic, a sedative that makes a brutal death a little easier.  It does not appear that our little friend has been given that gift.

“Hold still, little guy. Time to go home.”

I raise the shovel.  Rocky barks.  The squirrel blinks rapidly, moves his head side to side, but is otherwise still.

As hard as I can, I bring the flat underside of the shovel down on the little body.  There is no sound except that of metal hitting gravel and dirt, and that’s a blessing.  I know better than to assess the efficacy of the blow; I think of George and Ginger and the interminable time between the first shot and the second.  No thanks.  I rain down five rapid, fierce blows with all my strength, until I feel a sharp pain in my wrist and the dust hits my nostrils. 

Rocky whines.  I look back at my son.  He has not looked away.  I look back at the ground.  The little one is as flat as if he had been run over by a car.  I scoop him up in the shovel’s blade, walk him towards the high deer fence, and fling his body over.  Better that wild creatures who live on carrion have him than Rocky.

I put the shovel in the golf cart, and ask David to drive me the 50 yards over to the barn.  My son lets Rocky go, and the hound walks to the spot where the squirrel last lived, sniffs the ground, whines in frustration.  David puts the cart in gear, and we drive away.

“Do you understand that there was no other choice?”  I worry that my son will hear pleading in my voice. I am a reckless man who has shamed his children, and so every time I do something strange or new or difficult in front of them, I reflexively turn an explanation into an apology. 

I try to remind myself that what I just did has nothing to do with me in particular. It is simply something one does when one doesn’t live in a city; it is part and parcel of country life.  My ancestors sure as hell didn’t ask my forgiveness for what they showed me.

“The squirrel was going to die.  You had to make sure he didn’t have any more pain.”  My son sounds certain.

I nod.  “Are you sorry you stayed to see?”

David shakes his head.  A soft “no” follows.

We put away the shovel.  We go back down the hill, wash our hands, crank the ice cream.  Only when that is all done does David pull his mother and sister aside to tell them the story.  I stand out of earshot, but I watch. I see grief and pride and wonder in his face as he recounts what happened, and when Heloise hugs him, and he starts to cry, my tears start as well.

The next morning, David tells me he dreamed about the squirrel, and then asks if he too will ever have to kill something out of necessity.  I tell him he almost certainly will.

Later that day, just as we are getting ready for the big Fourth of July dinner, David asks to talk to me privately.  He has one more question.

“Daddy, is Rocky a bad dog for what he did?”

I shake my head, and explain that dogs act on instincts that they can rarely control.  “He just did a doggy thing.  Sometimes doggy things can seem very cruel to us.”

David mulls that a moment.  “I still love Rocky, though. I love dogs.”

I confess I cannot resist the urge to tell my son that it is a virtue to love others even after they upset us. 

I think he gets it. And when the time comes that he must do a hard thing that kindness requires, I hope he feels me – and all who came before us – steadying his nerve and his hand.