Doing sixty

Christian Century, Oct 21, 1998 by Jeff Kunkel

I was doing 60 and thinking about my boss, who's been on my ass lately, when the doe bounded out of the cedars and onto the highway. The red Jeep ahead of me caught her rear end just as she was about to jump clear of our lane and she tumbled, legs every which way, across the other lane and into a wide ditch. I'm a salesman on commission and when I'm on the road, I don't stop for anything except a gas gauge on E, a customer, or a motel at the end of the day. But something told me to stop now.

I got out of my car and walked to the Jeep. A young woman gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared through her windshield as if she was still doing 60. I tapped on her window with my knuckle and she jerked her stare at me. "Are you all right?" I shouted. She looked at me like I was some kind of madman and tore off, throwing gravel behind her and cutting onto the highway, right in front of a Buick. The driver laid on his horn and veered into the left lane, just missing her rear end. I thought, "Better luck than the doe." An 18-wheeler roared by and the driver, a guy with a big head and huge arms, looked down at me like, "Hey, what's a guy in a suit doing on the side of the road between a swamp and a hayfield?"

I crossed the highway and saw the doe lying on her belly in the ditch, head held high, eyes and ears fixed on me like radar. I thought, "Maybe she's just stunned." I walked toward her, slowly, and stopped when she threw her head back and tried to stand, but she couldn't get off her belly. Oh Jesus! Her back legs lay beneath her like broken branches, useless, the bones white, moist, glistening in the sun where they had broken through her hide. For several minutes she fought to find her back legs, eyes wild, like the woman's in the Jeep. Her bright pink tongue hung out of the side of her mouth and slapped her in the face each time she jerked her body. I didn't know what to do, so I did what I always do when I'm unsure--I got out of there, eager to hit the gas and throw some gravel behind me.

When I got to my car, I opened the trunk and checked my traveling gear: suitcase, raincoat, umbrella, spare tire, jack, and of course, my three-ring product binders. I sell frozen fish to anybody with a deep fryer, which is most any greasy spoon, roadside diner or restaurant in Wisconsin. Friday Night Fish Fries are big around here, even though the pope got liberal a while back and let his people eat meat on Friday.

I was about to close the trunk when I heard a dog barking. A big black-and-white collie ran toward me along the gravel shoulder. He caught the doe's scent, forgot about me, and went for her. I pulled off my suit coat, grabbed the jack handle and ran across the highway. The collie had her by the throat and threw his head from side to side, shaking the life out of her. Anger flowed into my chest and arms, and I ran right at that dog, waving the jack handle above my head like a tomahawk, yelling, "Get off her! Get away?"

He stayed on her until I was a step away, then let go and came for me like a wolf. I swung at him so hard that the jack handle whooshed through the air, but the dog ducked it, circled me and clamped onto my leg. I yelled, turned, swung again and busted his back. Down he went, yelping. I thought, "I have to kill him now." So I clenched my teeth and slammed him across the head. His eyes rolled back into his skull like white marbles, and I watched his legs stiffen and quiver. "What to have I done?" I wondered, dizzy. My legs went out from under me and I sank to the grass.

I set the jack handle next to me and looked at the doe. During my fight with the dog, she had pulled herself a few feet through the grass with her front legs, but now she lay still, sizing me up. Her tongue was inside her mouth and she looked less afraid, composed almost, as if she had pulled herself together for the final act. I'm not the kind of guy who talks to animals but I told her," I have to kill you, you know."

Her rabbit ears twitched and she blew a spray of blood from her black nostrils. Her ears twitched again and she looked down the road. A man walked toward us in the ditch, an old man with a body stronger and more trim than mine. He wore brown coveralls, work boots and a cap. I thought, "He must have pulled over like me," but I couldn't see his car anywhere. The man was about to speak to me but paused when he saw the dog lying next to me. He asked, "What happened to my dog?"

I stiffened. "He came for me."

"You killed him then?"

"He damn near took my leg off." Scared of what he might do, I picked up the jack handle and put it in my lap, making sure he saw my move. Kneeling next to his dog, he stroked the bloody fur with his thick hand, minus a forefinger.

"You was a good dog," he said. Turning to me, he added, "But he never could keep his teeth to hisself." The man stood, looked down at me and said, "Let me look at that leg of yours." Kneeling next to me, he slid two thick fingers from each hand into the small tear in my pants and ripped it open to see the bite. This guy smelled like a barn! "We'll let Mama look at it," he said as he pointed toward a white farmhouse down the road, half-hidden by a spruce windbreak.