Caught Stealing

                                          Caught Stealing
                                                © 2012, C. D. Bonner

The little house in Stockbridge was one of the nicest places I remember living. It was a simple white frame house with high concrete steps leading to the front door. It sat in the triangle where Highway 138 departs Stockbridge on its way to Conyers. Only a patch of milkweed separated our front door from the old store wedged into the fork of the road. Jake and I weren’t allowed to go all the way to the store, but we did play at the edge of the milkweed, a plant we studied with great interest.

The house was nice and we were making ends meet. Dad was a truck driver, hauling local loads around Atlanta and working the loading docks. He only occasionally made a long-haul run with a big rig. Mother got a job welding and bending pipe at a muffler shop. She earned enough money to buy a compact car, a little English Ford Prefect. It resembled a yellow and white potato. I remember feeling the rain sting my hands that I stuck out the window on the way back from Grant Park Zoo. We would visit the zoo to admire Willie B. the gorilla and meet up with Mother’s sister at the A&W drive-in for a milkshake afterwards. The Kennedy years were good to us.

We had a young Basset hound named Sammy. He loved kids and we enjoyed playing with him. He spent most of his time indoors with us, but would do a little exploring. One day, Dad sat on the orange vinyl couch watching TV. A woman was irritated and shouting something. Her shrill noise was getting closer to him–never a good sign. It was like having a police siren approaching your house, but you don’t know why they are coming. This couldn’t be good.
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He reached the door in time to see Sammy running up the trail through the milkweed, his long ears swinging. Sammy had the end of a baloney stick in his teeth, and he struggled to run with the stick trailing between his short legs. The sweaty, rotund lady huffing and puffing after him on her own short legs had shorter ears. Sammy had scored a stick his own approximate size and shape, and he wasn’t about to surrender it. My Dad was still chasing Sammy around the house to pry the baloney loose when the storeowner caught up, arriving in a cloud of steam. She was livid.

Dad walked down the slope to the store with the baloney tucked under his arm to make amends. Sammy straggled just behind, growling. Although Dad tried to do the right thing, the owner was uncooperative. Dad offered to pay her for the damaged end of the stick, but she demanded he buy the whole thing. He argued that the delivery guy had left the baloney outside on the store’s front porch, and that dogs will act as dogs do. My Dad lost the heated argument and had to pay fifteen dollars for the baloney–a couple of days’ pay. We ate baloney at every meal for a long time.

Our friend Sammy disappeared soon afterwards, under suspicious circumstances. I wonder if she was still mad about the baloney.

About Dean Bonner

C. D. (Dean) Bonner left the tarpaper shacks of Appalachia for a long military career, rising through the enlisted and officer ranks. He was a skilled Morse telegrapher and a calming voice during many search and rescue cases. He left a town of 300 souls to travel the world, living in Boston, New Orleans, DC, and even on the island of Guam for a couple of years. C. D. has a taste for things archaic, such as restoring Studebaker automobiles and antique tube radios, and is a weekend gold prospector. His partner PJ, a multi-talented artist, shares these same interests. Together, they travel and spend time at homes in Alabama and Virginia. C. D. has several upcoming projects, including recording several CDs of original humor for satellite radio and writing a new compilation of short stories. Dean worked as a weekly columnist for The Dadeville Record. He is a freelance writer for Lake Magazine and for Lake Martin Living Magazine. His feature articles have been published in The Republic arts magazine, in The Alexander City Outlook, and in The Lafayette Sun.

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