The Day Duke Exploded

It was one of those sweltering summer days in the South. July of 1960 was proving to be a month that would go down in the record books. I didn't know much about the weather, being only five, but I did know what hot was. The attic fan in our home ran non stop that summer. We had been sleeping with the windows open since early May. Waking up damp with perspiration was our badge of courage for making Mississippi our home. That's what my Daddy would say. The heat and my youthful ignorance would soon prove to be my undoing.

The day started like any other day. Mama arose early and started breakfast. That was her duty. Southern women, especially Mothers, had duties. Unmarried young women had dreams of someday having duties. It didn't make too much sense to me. I just wanted to be outside playing, or fishing with my friends. I crawled out of bed soon after Mama from the smell of sausage and biscuits on the table. Daddy would be up and to the table after his morning bath. Showers hadn't been invented yet, at least not in our town. It was a bath where you got to lie down in a tub of tepid water to wash away the dirt and sweat from the day before. The night before when I said my prayers I promised God that I would tell my big secret today, a secret that had been troubling me all week. I didn't know if I could go another day feeling such guilt without telling Mama and Daddy what I did, and where I hid the body. I planned to tell them tonight when we sat and talked before bedtime. Just then I heard Daddy raise his voice so Mama would answer quickly. "What's that God awful smell? Did you clean some catfish last night and forget to put the garbage out Mama?" I sank low in my chair hoping he wouldn't see the guilt on my face, but it was much too late to fix things now.

Five days earlier, it had rained hard. Enough rain to leave what looked like a lake in our yard, and a river along the ditch that lined our dirt road. Just the kind of rain that Duke, my Labrador, and I liked playing in. As I pulled on my galoshes I thought about how much I loved my dog. We were good buddies. I called out loud for Duke, but there was no answer. I called for him again a little louder. He should be running up to me and jumping on my chest. That was his typical greeting. It was a ritual, and for a moment I was worried. After all I was five years old, and rituals were important to me. I had rituals for almost everything. When I met up with my friend Glen each day, our ritual was to punch each other as hard as we could. It hurt, but it was our ritual. If I didn't get slugged in the arm I felt unacknowledged, I needed that to validate our bond. I needed Duke's presence, but he was no where to be found. I had to go look for him. I hurriedly put on my Hopalong Cassidy cowboy hat and gloves and set out in search of my buddy.

The rain had turned the dirt road in front of our house into a gumbo of red and yellow clay. I slipped with almost every step I took, hoping to find Duke at the next turn in the road. As I approached the intersection of where our road met up with the county highway I saw Duke. He had been hit by a car, and he lay motionless in the rain. I knelt down and opened his mouth out of curiosity. His tongue was swollen, and his jaw was rigid. Even at my young age, I knew he was dead. I felt ashamed. I should have taken better care of Duke and protected him from all the bad things in life. He was more than my friend, he was my responsibility. I wasn't going to let him lie out here in the rain. I grabbed him tight by the tail with my cowboy gloves and dragged him towards home. Back home I found a place to hide his body in the garage which adjoins the main house. Somehow hiding his body relieved me of some of the shame I felt for not caring and watching out for him better. I had failed Duke, and now he was dead.

The next few days passed uneventfully, although questions of Duke's whereabouts came up nightly. Mama and Daddy would say Duke probably found a girlfriend, and was out "sowing his oats". I wished they would stop talking about him. My guilt was tremendous, and I became more and more ashamed each time Duke was mentioned during our family discussions. I knew exactly what happened to Duke. I felt awful. For the first time in my young life I didn't like myself. I felt I had not only let Duke down, but my family as well.

That brings me back to the breakfast table. As I slid down in my chair, I was promptly snatched back to reality with a stern look from my Daddy's all knowing eyes. I couldn't take it anymore. I had no choice but to reveal my secret now. With a cathartic release of pent up emotion I wailed, “I did it, I know what happened to Duke!” I led Daddy out to the garage, and in behind a stack of old worn out tires, and a swarm of flies rested the body of our family dog. Duke in all his glory had decomposed, and some time during the night, for lack of a better word, had exploded. Daddy said a very bad word, before slowly composing himself. Gently he took me by the hand and walked me back inside the house. We all took our breakfast out to the back yard and sat at the picnic table. We cried, laughed, and remembered our Duke. Although Daddy punished me by having me clean up the mess I helped create, I finally understood unconditional parental love, the price of keeping secrets from the family, and the meaning of a dog day afternoon.

When the Rain Falls

I'd play a muted trumpet if I could
on my front door steps
If my neighbors heard it they'd know
that it was raining

Cheeks buldging like Dizzy's
smiling like Satchmo
in between clouds
of soulful riffs

Smooth notes like the rain
falling by the bucket full
from a tarnished old horn
and a young boy’s fancy