He was big . . . the biggest of the litter . . . big enough to wrestle bears, and he did, two, maybe more; but he killed many. When he woke up in that black inky night he couldn’t see, thought he was blind, and had a massive hangover from his daddy’s Cherry Jump moonshine. He thought a buzzard had died in his mouth and with it came rotten buzzard breath. A headache like someone had hit him with a pole axe made him feel like he was dead, dead as four-o’clock. And did he smell! Wow! His torn bib overalls were soaked in sour mash. Other than not knowing where he was, he still thought he was alright, and that too was a problem. Was there any hope or any salvation? He had been weather hardened by war.
He stood up and he tired to walk, but ran into something. It knocked him down. When he fell, he heard something rattle. It was a trace chain attached to a leather dog collar around his neck. But in the inky dark he couldn’t see his hand in front of him. He got up again and found the trace chain wrapped around a tree, and locked.
Shocked, he screamed out, “Goddamn! I’m chained to a tree,” then screamed louder, “They have chained me to a tree like a wild cur dog!”
Now mad as hornet with his stinger busted, he felt around and found something else about the tree.
This time he screamed even louder, “Son of a bitch! It’s my goddamn tree! Who in the hell would chain me to my own tree?”
He sat back down against the family tree stunned, and then realized; “It’s got to be my . . . family. Chained me like a goddamn cur dog to a tree. But which one of them would have the nerve to do this . . . to ME?”
Then he realized it could be only one person.
He stood up and screamed, “Mama!
Then he fell down again, pounded the ground, cried like his heart tore out. He got up off the ground, went into a wild-man’s rage then fainted with exhaustion.