Recently I testified at a murder trial.
My big brown Quarter Horse named Buster snorted and stomped his hoof with clear protest at the prospect of moving farther into the forest patch. It was a cool September evening with the sun slipping over the horizon in a scarlet-purple-hued pattern. Buster didn't shy easily. I routinely hunted off his back. My beagle, Boomer, darted forward, and Buster nervously followed.
We found Boomer sniffing in a shallow grave with a mound of mud fresh turned, and a lady's legs still visible. I'd interrupted someone burying her body. Boomer barked, and Buster bucked and bolted, carrying us clear as a gun boomed and buckshot blew through the brush behind us. Another boom, and more buckshot pellets peppered the trees, missing the mark. I swung Buster wide of the divide using the forest for cover as the shotgun fulminated and flashed tattering trees with pellets hoping to hit us. I swung Buster around to reach high ground a couple hundred yards beyond the bend.
I recognized the distant parked truck as my neighbor's, and his kid running with a shovel and shotgun. His name was Jeff, and he was eighteen years old. He jumped in the truck and gunned the gas, bouncing away over the bumpy field. I didn’t like Jeff. He was a cruel bully and we’d fought once before. We’d collided in combat in a corridor in a flurry of fists and feet ducking, chucking and pummeling punches with a few kicks and wrestling. It was a real brutal battle of blows, holds, throws and rolls, but neither one of us won before the teachers broke it up.
I nudged Buster into another gallop, and he sped through forest and fields along with some obstacle jumps and a short swim through the creek. Once home, I left him loose to eat while I grabbed my own gun for defense and called the cops.
There's not a lot of crime in my neck of the woods, so the cops came quickly. My bird, Pecky, didn't like the bright badge on one cop's hat and flew through the kitchen, swooping on the hat like a hawk on a hare. His little talons clung tight as he pecked furiously at the hat-badge. I managed to pry him off and cage him. He screeched his fury, wanting to attack that hat again. The cop took it off, and Pecky shut up, mollified for the moment.
We heard loud crunching and rattling outside the door, and the cop looked suspicious, so I went out to reveal Buster. He'd once again used his big nose to push the porch door open and was noisily munching from the dog food bag. Boomer discovered the theft and started barking as if saying, "Get out of my food!"
"You might be eating other horses, Buster," I scolded him, pushing him out the door and locking it.
I heard an angry shout and rushed in to learn that Boomer had peed on one cop's leg. I put Boomer out and apologized while handing the cop a towel. They asked me to lead them to the body, and I agreed. Outside, the peed-on cop cursed, pointing at a big fresh scrape on his shiny paint job. He asked if there was anyone on the property that could have done it. I said no. But he glared, sensing that I knew more than I was saying.
Truth is, Buster loves biting bright shiny things. He'd bit both my dad's and uncle's trucks. I knew he must have bit the cop's car. Probably retaliation over the dog food debacle.
I led them to the body. It was a sweet, cute, seventeen year old girl named Ann. She was Jeff's girlfriend. She'd been strangled. My testimony put Jeff in prison with a life bit.
I don't have many human guests.
My animals are kind of territorial.
***
It wasn’t the first time they caused me major problems either.
When I was 13 and had just moved in the area with my folks and our animals, I met a pretty little lady, named Shannon. She was short with long blond hair and alluring emerald eyes that hypnotized me. I wanted to make a good impression on her when I took her out riding, but my animals messed that all up for me.
Shannon was riding behind me on Buster’s back when something made him jump in the brush full of burdocks. Poor Shannon’s long hair snagged in the burdocks and was so knotted up with burrs it looked like she had a softball hidden in her hair. I sat there patiently picking and pulling burdocks out of her long hair for probably a half hour, and even then it was still full of burrs, so I took her home.
On the way, Boomer tangled with a skunk and got sprayed. The smell was revolting. When we reached Shannon’s house her mom was opening the front door with her dog by her side. Boomer saw the other dog and went into immediate attack mode, despite the other mutt being twice his size. Boomer hurtled into the house and the dogs battled in a blur of bodies and bites with some barks and savage snarls. Shannon and her mom were both screaming and I had to go wrestle Boomer’s stinking butt out of the house, which by then stunk like him.
I’d just put him down when he spotted the domestic pet geese that Shannon’s folks kept. Boomer bolted in a blur of fur and fangs and snapped his trap, nipping the neck of a poor goose and goring it with savage shakes of his head. The other geese exploded in action fleeing the murder scene. Once again, I got a hold of Boomer and this time didn’t put him down, despite the stink. Shannon and her mom were freaking out about the gored goose.
“Get that monster out of here,” Shannon’s mom ordered and they both went inside.
I figured there wouldn’t be a second date. I figured it was safe to finally put Boomer down with everyone gone. I noticed the big dead goose and realized Thanksgiving was next week. It didn’t make any sense to just leave the goose there, so I decided to take it home to eat.
When I swung up in the saddle, I accidentally hit Buster in the head with the goose. He thought he was being attacked and bolted. As he ran, the goose’s wings flapped in the wind, scaring him more thinking the goose was chasing him. Buster’s path took us right through Shannon’s clotheslines and the lines were full of underwear and other feminine clothing. The clotheslines tangled around my waist and dragged behind me, making Buster think the clothes were after him too, so he ran faster. I was having trouble not laughing. By the time I got him under control we were deep in the woods and I’d lost track of where the clothesline and clothes fell off behind us. I decided it was best just to go home.
The next morning didn’t start out any better. Despite several showers, I still had a skunk scent to me and had to go to school. Before school, I had to go get Buster out of the neighbor’s field. Apparently the goose episode had traumatized him so bad that when a flock of geese landed in the field next to his pasture he jumped the fence to escape the flock, likely thinking they were coming after him over their dead buddy.
At school, my buddy Andy confronted me. ”Hey, what happened with Shannon?”
“What did you hear?” I had to ask.
“She’s telling everyone that you pushed her in the burdocks and then had your dog attack hers and they had to take her dog to the vet because your dog nipped her dog’s nuts. Then your dog killed her pet goose and you stole the dead goose and stole her underwear off the clothesline when leaving.” Andy informed me gleefully.
“Great,” I sighed miserably.
The only good thing out of that encounter was my mom cooked Shannon’s goose for Thanksgiving. It was quite tasty.
Bio:
Tom Kropp’s work has appeared in Chiron Review, Churches, Children and Daddies, Down in the Dirt, The Horror Zine, Freedom Fiction Short-Story Me, Dark Harbor Magazine, Blood Moon Rising, Flash Phantoms, Phantomania, Lowlife Lit, The Listening Eye, J Journal, Evening Street Review, Conceit, Spotlight on Recovery, Muscle and Fitness, Outdoor Life and many other magazines. His play Jailhouse Confessions was performed at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC in 2019. You can find more of his writings at tomkropp.wordpress.com. He has many fantasy novels published.