Broken Timber, Arkansas
July 4th, 1947
Behind the Fairgrounds-Boxing Ring
It was a raucous crowd of men from Broken Timber County and Broken Timber town celebrating the fourth of July. Around the town was sack races, pie contests, and a general carnival atmosphere. But the boxing event, was hidden out behind the baseball field in a fallow field let go to pasture.
The atmosphere in the pasture was The stench of sweaty men of every race and age, mixed with tobacco, beer the odor of urine and stale food met anyone headed for the bare-knuckle boxing event before they ever got to the pasture. Perhaps, a hundred men surrounded the makeshift boxing ring. They yelled over one another, making bets and threats. The racket was deafening and it hurt my ears. Boots and bare feet flattened the soil and the grass. The inside of the ring was fresh turned earth, someone having removed the wild pasture grass for the opponents to fight.
The makeshift boxing ring was formed by a circle of wooden crates, placed end to end, and a string of horse rope tied to posts that were impaled in the earth behind the crates. It wasn’t fancy, but some of the best, bare-knuckle fights in history had occurred in boxing ring similar to this one.
An opponent stepped on the crate and over the rope to get in the ring, and stepped on the crate and over the rope to get out. Unless he couldn’t. Then the crates would be removed in an area and the injured boxer would be dragged out of the ring and the crates replaced. It was a brutal event with prize money for any male who threw his hat in the ring.
No respectable women were present at the boxing event held every July fourth. No woman even tried to attend. The men and boys wanted to spit, bet and cuss. They shouted at each other waving their hands and made obscene gestures. They jeered unmercifully at the fallen opponent, and cheered the winning contenders in the ring. The fights were bloody. Prize fighters came from other towns, but it was often neighbor against neighbor and what happened in the ring stayed within the brotherhood of the men. July fourth each year offered an event that allowed the men to shake off the yoke of being civilized by their women folk. It was a few hours and a rare freedom.
The unrelenting July heat at midday made good customers for the Irish Pub. Boys ran to and from the tavern collecting money and returning with large mugs of frothy, cold beer.
The closely packed crowd of chaotic men was not appealing to dogs. Especially to an old dog like me. My young master, Tow-Head, was in his corner of the ring. He beat his first opponent with one knock out punch. He waved at me and my young pup as we trotted towards the outside perimeter of the crowd. My master’s name was Tow-Head because his blond hair was almost white. A large grin stretched across his face as he waved and called to us: “Hey! Eb? Boo? Did you mutts see me win?”
We both barked as he stood and waved his arm. His smile changed and he nodded. He was proud of us dogs. He knew we were here for him and proud of him. But, Tow-head, would expect us to get out of the heat and not stay in next to the ring and stampede of legs and feet. My dark fur absorbed and retained heat. My pup, Boo, and I walked with our heads down and our mouths open. The heat was oppressive and we panted rapidly, our canine bodies response to heat and trying to cool off.
Dogs did not sweat like humans did to cool their bodies. Boo and I put one foot in front of the other two and moved under the punishing heat towards the creek adjacent to the tract of tall pines on the knoll. Even though I’m an old dog, I couldn’t wait to lap up the cold water or roll around in it. And my young pup, Boo, would enjoy the water with more vigor and excitement. I would enjoy watching him from the bank of the creek. I wagged my tail despite the oppressive heat. I looked forward to watching my son, Boo, caravort with other pups and dogs in the water.
We drank and played in the creek and then returned out of respect for Tow-Head’s match with a second opponent. He was a big Irishman and won every match against Tow-Head every year. Our young master said this year was different. That he was going to win.
Our master was nineteen years old. He was big, blond, and just as muscled as the solid Irishman who was twice his age. We trotted up and back from the creek several times. But now our nineteen year old, Tow-Head Baines, our master, was in the boxing ring.
My pup, Boo and I stopped and made a vantage point atop a sloping hill, four-hundred yards away from the boxing ring and the noisy, aggressive crowd of boxing zealots. We, like other dogs, were lying under towering Short-Leaf Pines. The pines stood alone in the pasture like a row of tin soldiers. These trees were left uncut to mark divisions in the ownership of property lines. The pines were towering above us dogs, but the tree’s branches were sparse and offered little shade.
Boo and I were panting in the little burrows we had carved out with our paws in the rocky soil, our bellies were a bit cooler, but not much.
We couldn’t see the make-shift boxing ring from our perspective. We didn’t have to watch the fight between our master, Tow-Head and his opponent, Peter Dannehay, the Irishman, twenty-years our young master’s senior.
We could hear Tow-head’s every breath, even his sniff as he sucked up blood draining from his nose, we didn’t have to be close to the ring and get kicked by the crowd to know that Tow-Head was losing to the mountain of an Irish man again. Peter Dannehay’s chuckle was clear in our finely tuned dog ears.
The Willow Family’s Irish Setters moved with prancing steps in front of us and greeted with a cursory greeting, “Hello, Eb. Boo.” They nodded their heads, their noses in the air like all pure breeds. I tipped my head and raised my tail. I flicked it to the side, almost a wave, but not quite. It was an appropriate response to the snooty Irish Setters, disinterested, but cordial.
Me and Boo herd the slick thud and slide of a fighter’s body being slammed into the muddy ground. Before we could open our eyes and see the referee, Joe Tanner, the butcher, count Tow-Head out, Runt, a small terrier mix, hopped and yipped announcing uncommon news.
Tow-head won! Tow-head won!” the small dog slid into Boo. “Did you hear me? Tow-Head won against Dannehay!”
“What?” I said rising to all fours. Runt, barely reached the first joints in my legs. I’m a mix between a Great Dane and German Shepherd and about three foot at my shoulders. Boo is also a quarter Great Dane and German Shepherd, but his mother is a black, Labrador, so it’s hard to tell how big Boo will be when he is grown. He’s eleven month’s now and almost seventy-two pounds to my two-hundred and eleven pounds. So, the terrier, Runt, was very small compared to the two of us. He also was annoyingly chipper and bounced like a ball on his hind legs.
“Are you sure, Runt?” Boo asked. He squinted his eyes in the direction of the boxing “ring”. His tail straight up. “Dad, I think Runt’s right! Listen! Tow-Head is whooping and shouting challenges at “Green Eyes”. The crowd of humans sound like angry bees.
I snarled thinking of Tow-Head’s foolishness. “I was afraid this day would come.”
Boo and Runt tipped their heads to the side. Each had one ear saluting and the other limply laying on the side of their heads. “What do you mean, Dad? What day?”
I stretched out my long legs in front of me, my back curved down toward the rock earth, and my rear end shifted to the back. I growled at the initial discomfort and then the relief. I am thirteen years old, which is old for any dog, and the bones ache sometimes. I licked my chops. Not because I was looking at my twenty-eighth male-pup, but because my mouth was dry from panting. I knew Boo had to be parched as well, and being somewhat of a coward when it came to delicate, human issues, I didn’t want to tell Runt or Boo anything about Tow-Head and Green Eyes. I wanted water.
I glanced at the direction of the boxing ring. The scent of Tow-Head was strong with sweat, blood and pheromones. Green-eyes’ scent was on the breeze as well. His heart thundered in his chest, but slowed as Green Eyes controlled exhale and slow inhale as he tried to slow his heart rate. While his heart rate slowed, his breaths resounded deep in his wide chest. He always had more self-control than his half-brother, Tow-Head. But his anticipation and hate wafted acrid and almost caustic against the insides of the nares of my snout.
Boo snarled and backed up, tumbling over his own gangly legs. I huffed. Boo would grow into those legs, yet his growth and antics would entertain me for the next year. I loved my Boo. I loved my other pups, too. But I knew my death was forth coming and I figured Boo was the last of my pups. I just wanted to enjoy life with Boo. No complications. “Boo, let’s go get a drink from the creek and cool off. Tow-head will be fighting Green Eyes next. We’ll be back in time for that match.”
Runt whimpered. He wagged his head to and fro and his ears and tail hung limply. “Those two brothers are mean as snakes. The both of them. This fight is going to be bad.”
The fur on my neck prickled and I leveled a deadly stare at Runt. I snarled.
Runt yipped, and scurried in the opposite direction of Boo.The little terrier hid behind a shrub and peered curiously at me and Boo. I rolled my eyes and huffed at the sight of his close proximity. The little canine would probably follow them to the creek. I huffed again. Tired.
“Dad,” Boo whined. “Tell me about Tow-Head and Green Eyes.”
“No!” I woofed as gruff and concise as I could. Boo was my favorite pup, but I’d spoiled him. He didn’t fall in line like my pups, wives and pack had before him. I started trotting toward the creek mulling over how I would correct this discipline problem with Boo. His oldest brother, Scat, was alpha. Scat would not put up with Boo’s disrespect and insubordination. And I knew the consequences could be deadly. It wasn’t something I grudged against Scat, it was the way of the dog pack and had been for thousands of years. I had to do right by Boo. The pup was following me and I did not look back. That’s what alpha pack dogs do-they lead, not cajole. Boo whimpered and whimpered and whimpered about the human males Tow-Head and Green Eyes. I snapped my neck around and opened my mouth and nipped Boo on the neck. It was for his own good. But it hurt inside my old-dog heart.
Boo yipped. He looked me in the eyes. A pack dog never, ever looks the alpha male in the eyes, unless he has a death wish. Boo curled his lip, “Tell me about our master, Tow-Head, and his brother, Green Eyes or I’ll just ask Runt.”
I realized at that moment as I looked at my defiant pup, that Boo was either going to be a pack leader very early in life or dead. The latter did not set well with me and my heart ached. I knew what I had to do. It ached into my throat and I had to swallow. I growled but it came out initially too high pitched. I lowered my head, curled my lips back and showed my teeth. I growled at my young pup from my chest, which is hard with your teeth bared, but I had done this intimidation since I was four years old. Boo flinched and backed up a step as the Earth below our paws vibrated in sync with my warning.
“Boo,” I kept my eyes narrowed on his and moved over his shorter stature. “Do not ask about our master, Tow-Head or his brother, Green Eyes again. Do not ask about any ridiculous, illogical human life again. Only regarding human and pack training and law, and the questions should only be limited since you can observe everything I have commanded you.”
My pup, my joy in my old life, surprised me with a backwards stumble and then a leap in the direction of Runt. Runt wasn’t stupid and took off in the opposite direction of Boo. My pup though over came the small dogs stride in moments. A sense of dread as heavy and black as the last beat of my heart stopped me in my tracks. Boo committed an act that the alpha dog in a pack would kill or maim him as the penalty. My legs felt wobbly, weak, as I considered what Scat, Boo’s older brother and Alpha would have to do to regain the packs’ confidence. And none of the options were acceptable to my old, alpha heart that had grown soft with age. It was because of my negligence that Boo knew no better. It was my fault that Boo was curious about the two human brothers that would probably kill each other today in the ring.
I thought of the two brothers, one white and one black. One legitimate and one illegitimate and both hated by this town for their father,a white lawyer, Abraham John Baites’ philosophy that all men regardless of legitimacy, or race were created equal.
Both brothers were persecuted for their father’s teaching about the equality of man. They were ridiculed and bullied. The two brothers, left alone in this world without their father, desired to be nothing like their passionate, principled father. Whose existence had caused them and their mothers pain, persecution and derision from the townspeople.
Yet, the simple-existence of each brother, reminded the town and the brothers of their father’s unorthodox and hated teachings. If they embraced each other as brothers it would be an action that would be interpreted by the town as evidence that the brothers embraced their father’s philosophy. It was a deadly philosophy and one that neither son wanted to be associated.
So, they turned against each other for survival. The philosophy their father taught and lived his life by—was rewarded with a bullet to the head. Abraham John Baites was forty-three years of age when he was shot. He never regained consciousness confined to a sick bed at the home of his legal wife, Catherine Baites, and lie contorted and mute he continued to live only because both boys’ mothers took shifts feeding and caring for him. Their mothers did not like each other. They were not friends. It was a necessity. Neither woman respected herself for the love they felt for their boys father, Abraham. But neither could let him die.
So, Lovey, Green Eyes mother, came in the dark of night and cared for the father of her children and disappeared with the morning mist. If anyone from town knew, no one ever said anything.
How could a pup understand the illogical human spirit? It would only get him into trouble. Awful trouble with the two brothers who would enter the ring to fight for the first time publicly. Their hatred was bitter as turpentine and the fire of hatred would not be put out until one of them was dead. Then the other brother would hang for murder. Their poor mothers’ would again be punished so heinously, losing their beloved sons, as a consequence for loving the same human man. In a dog’s world there would be no such conflict.
I shifted my focus from my thoughts and the fight that would happen below in the muddy, boxing ring, and my master, Tow-Head. My pup who was animatedly pestering Runt, the terrier, trying to get Runt tell him about the human brothers. Now my son became my focus. Had I been Scat, the current alpha, Boo would be dead or maimed. Runt had rolled on his back in submission. He wasn’t about to cross me. But my son, he had no such sense. It was up to me to teach him dog-pack law. Perhaps Boo would submit quickly and he would not have to injure him badly or maim him.
I dropped my head down and pawed the ground. Runt squealed and crawled on his belly away from Boo. For a moment my heart soared! Surely, Boo would follow Runt. My old, muscled legs covered the ground between me and my pup, my joy and my happiness. It’s worse to see someone you love suffer for something you did or neglected. I had neglected to teach Boo respect and dog law. Instead, his mind was fanciful and entertained the chaotic lives of humans. Boo was focused on anything that did not have to do with growing into an adult dog. Boo would often while away the hours reasoning on humans and their behavior. It was wasted time, because a dog’s world is simple with simple laws. Humans and their actions and lives never made sense. It was useless to think about it. But I had allowed Boo to do as his heart pleased. He had not learned, as other pups his age, dog pack law. He was now at an age of accountability-no longer a mere pup. Where, in the past, I had failed to teach Boo the laws of respect and obedience I must now.
I saw my pup, my son, charge at an action that challenged me as the acting alpha male. My heart stopped and ripped in half at the mistake my pup made against dog law. I must teach him or another alpha would and it would be far more cruel.
I leapt into the air over my pup with my teeth bared. A long way off, the rank smell of the humans’ excitement, hate and anticipation stung my nose. Tears rolled back in my nose and throat.
Boo would have to surrender or be killed. It would be kinder if I did the killing; I would not let my pup suffer. Again, the acrid scent of hate emanating from both human brothers and the new sound of pop and slap of human fists against the other’s flesh, muscle and bone disoriented me. I feared death may not be far off for my master. Even though my body was moving quickly through thin air, time passed ever so slowly. A numbness began to quiet my brain and slow my heart.
I didn’t think it as my jaws clamped on my pup’s neck. But the dog world no longer made sense. It was surreal and I did not feel like I was in my canine body. My old jaws reacted in a knee-jerk fashion from years of being the alpha of the dog pack and its protector.
Was Boo’s life seeping from his body? I felt the stillness, but I was numb and unable to react. Images of cruel and confusing acts of humans flashed in quick succession in my mind. My brain rejected the thoughts about the humans. I no longer thought at all. I was all instinct. I was alpha and this was dog law.