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Copyright © 2007
Jeff Falkingham

Spook

I should have seen it coming. Heck, I should have heard it coming. The "it" was my little dog Spook. We called him Spook because he was white as a ghost, except for a small black splotch around each eye that made his head look like a hollow skull staring up at you in the middle of the night.

Anyhow, Spook and I moseyed down to the train station most every afternoon. I usually found some way to put a penny in my pocket. If nothing else, Mr. Henderson, the stationmaster, let me sweep up. I was plenty good at that, what with all the practice I got in Pa's barbershop. Spook usually found something to spark his interest too, and ofter wandered off, sniffing at a hot trail. But he always came back to me before long.

Unfortunately, on this occasion he picked the worst possible time to do so. They say the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Spook was out to prove it was also the quickest. He was racing straight toward me as fast as he could, yipping and yapping his fool head off. Trouble was, directly between me and him stood Big Ahl Neunen.

Spook never knew what hit him. As he tried to scoot between Big Ahl's legs, a heavy boot shot out and sent him flying. "Outta my way, ya mangy cur," Big Ahl grumbled.

Spook's head hit the corner of a wooden water trough, and he fell limply to the ground. As he lay motionless in the mud, red blood trickling across his lily-white face, I lost it. I don't know what came over me. I just lost it. I dropped my bags in the mud and ran at Big Ahl, kicking him in the back of one leg as hard as he'd kicked Spook.

"Why you little . . . ," said Big Ahl, spinning around. He picked me up by the head in his huge hands and held me at arm's length. My brain felt like it was in a vise. I kicked and screamed to no avail.