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Uncle Steve

Bill Tope

Woody stood and watched the old
dog die. And his Uncle Steve was
the one who killed it. “I’ll learn you
how to put down a dog, Woodrow,”
said his uncle pedantically.

Uncle Steve drew close, towering
above the boy and frowning. Woody
could smell the fine saw dust and the
sweat and the lust which was as much
a part of his uncle as was his
unforgiving, overbearing nature. Woody
never felt entiely safe around Uncle
Steve, especially when no one else
was near.

Woody didn’t like to be called Woodrow,
which was the reason that his uncle called
him that. It was a part of Steve’s scheme to
toughen him up. Woody didn’t wonder what
the dog had done to deserve execution;
Uncle Steve had explained before: “That
dog, he won’t hunt!”

It mattered little that Major had dutifully
served his master for more than a decade;
when its productivity waned, its life was
forfeit. It also mattered not at all that Major
was a favorite of Woody’s.

“There’ll be no pets on this farm,” declared
Uncle Steve time and again. “These is all
working animals.”

Uncle Steve grabbed the black Lab by the
collar and roughly dragged him to a clearing.
Holding the dog under his boot, Uncle Steve
unsheathed a hunting knife and without
ceremony plunged it the length of its blade
into Major’s soft underbelly. In an act of abject
cruelty Steve twisted the blade in the flesh
and then dragged the razor keen blade up
into he animal’s chest cavity. Woody’s eyes
opened wide.

Major gave but a single piteous whine at this
betrayal, then fell silent. With a satisfied grunt,
Uncle Steve withdrew the knife and wiped the
blade carelessly on the animal’s fur. “That,” he
told his nephew unnecessarily and with no
little relish, “is how you put down a dog. You
gut ‘em!”

He peered closely at Woody, as if to check for
any unwanted sign of caring, of weakness, but
the 8-year old shed not a tear. “Next time, boy,
you make the kill.” Woody said nothing. “Go on,
Woodrow,” said his uncle impatiently, “bury this
worthless animal.”

Uncle Steve would find that Woody had indeed
learned his lesson and learned it well. Next time
it would be Woody who would make the kill. He
would use that same knife to slay the next
worthless animal. He had toughened up.

Woody could just picture it in his young mind: in
due time, he would take the knife, as he had
been so carefully schooled, and without preamble,
plunge it into Uncle Steve’s soft underbelly. And
then give it a cruel twist. Woody’s face lit up with
a thin smile, as if he were enjoying some private
joke.

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