Ronnie Crocker fiction short story Mad Dog
Detail from Anomalia by Nancy Panganiban, 28″ x 28″, Acrylic on birch panel, 2025
Mad Dog
Kate hugged the drowsing baby tighter to her chest and breathed him in while she watched Bill struggle to sharpen a pocketknife.
Her dark-haired husband set the gray whetstone on his thigh and tried to hold it in place first with his elbow and then with the wrist of his swollen right hand. He thumbed the knife open with his left and made a couple of awkward scrapes. Another swipe across the stone nicked the fleshy padding of his palm.
“Hell,” he yelped, jerking his hand back as the whetstone clattered onto the bottom porch step. “Useless,” he said.
Kate stood up with the baby and cut a glance toward her brother-in-law, Pete, who was leaning against the house in a cane-back chair. He was staring at Bill, too, but with a look of contempt. “My god, brother, how long are you going to be crippled up like this?” he said. “You already missed one war, and nobody will want you for the next one. You can just sit here and whittle up every pine tree in East Texas while the men go fight. If you can ever hold your knife steady, that is.”
She wanted to kick the chair out from under him, but she watched in silence as Pete pushed forward with his hands on his knees. His feet and the front chair legs landed with a hard thump. He rose and stepped languidly from the porch and sauntered off in the direction of the outhouse.
Kate laid the baby on a pallet she’d made earlier of folded quilts. She untied her apron and sat down next to Bill. She stroked his hair and felt his head bob yes when she asked if he was okay. She bent down to pick up the whetstone and was shocked to see tears welling in her husband’s eyes when she handed it to him.
“This is not your fault, what happened,” she said, reaching over to dab the dots of blood with her apron. “You’ll get back to the sawmill when you can. Anyone blames you for an accident, they’re a fool.”
She waited for a response, and when it didn’t come, she dabbed Bill’s hand once more and set the apron to the side. “But I wish you’d see a doctor,” she said. “It’s not healing right.”
“Pete says he saw soldiers get over a lot worse in Europe,” Bill said.
Beth looked to the sky and lit one of the cigarettes she’d rolled that morning. That was exactly something Pete would say, she thought. She released a thin plume of smoke from between her lips and offered the cigarette to Bill.
“One has nothing to do with the other,” she said. “Now let’s get you into the house and changed before you get blood all over your church clothes.”
In the doorway, she unknotted his necktie and tried to pull him in for a kiss with the ends.
He turned his head and muttered something about Pete coming back.
“You’re a good man, Bill,” she said under her breath as the screen door slammed behind him. “Holler if you need a hand getting your boots off,” she said, louder, through the door.
She was about to strike a match for another cigarette when she heard a rustle and a gurgling wheeze on the east side of the house. She turned just as Pete’s dog, the dun-colored stray that had followed him home one night after hunting, leapt wildly onto the porch. Growling and shaking his head, slinging saliva in a wide arc, he raced across the pallet where the baby lay sleeping. He reared up and pawed his jowls, then lurched off the other side.
“Bill!” she yelled. There was a wail from the pallet, and Kate slipped on dog slobber as she tried to get to the baby. “Bill, hurry!”
Kate winced as her knees landed on the porch. She scrambled toward the squirming child. She scrubbed his face with the dishtowel she had draped over her shoulder and was about to unpin his diaper when Bill appeared in the doorway in his undershirt. “Mad dog!” she yelled and handed him the baby.
“Don’t come any closer. Just take Tiger over to that bucket of dishwater. I’ll be there to wash him off as soon as I can get out of these clothes. Pete’s dog just had a mad fit and ran right across his pallet. Oh, Bill. I don’t think he bit him, but he sure slobbered on him. Be careful not to get any of it on your hand.”
Kate stripped to her underwear and bolted into the house before Pete came around the corner. She heard him asking what the commotion was while she splashed water on her arms and face.
“Grab a sheet and gather up my clothes and the quilt and take it all down to the burn barrel,” she told Bill, taking the baby from his arms. “I’ll meet you there after I scrub this one and then the porch. Oh, Bill.” She shook powdered soap into the wash bucket to bathe the boy. “And be careful out there,” she said over her shoulder. “You don’t know when that dog’s coming back.”
She heard Pete’s footsteps on the porch, and she prayed that Bill would remember to keep him from walking in on his half-naked wife.
“Kate said your dog had a fit and nearly ran over Tiger,” Bill said outside.
“Oh, that’s horseshit,” Pete responded with a snort. “There’s nothing wrong with that dog. I saw him just now. He was chasing grasshoppers in the pasture.”
“Well, all I know is what she told me, Pete. She’s pretty upset. I’m taking these down to burn. Why don’t you come help me?”
“Aw, hell, Bill, you don’t need to burn anything. She’s the one having a fit. Over nothing.”
Kate’s fury turned cold as she gently blotted the baby dry.
“I know what I saw,” she said to Tiger.
♦ ♦ ♦
The snoring continued in crescendo as Kate wriggled from her worn spot on the mattress. She lifted the covers and slid out of bed, checking over her shoulder that she’d not woken her husband.
She went to the bassinet by the open window and looked in where Tiger was sleeping. She felt she could stare at him forever like this, but she had practical concerns in mind. She wanted to make sure the honks and bleats of his father and the brays and snorts from his uncle in the adjacent bedroom had not broken his slumber.
He lay there, guileless, motionless, oblivious to the mayhem around him. She marveled that it could be so, but she worried, too. Was this his destiny? To one day torment a wife so unknowingly? Worse, he could wind up a selfish bastard like his uncle next door, propping his door open with a pair of boots, heedless of what it meant for anyone else trying to get some sleep. “Too hot,” Pete hissed once when she asked if he’d mind pulling his door closed as a courtesy.
Kate wanted her son to grow up to be like her own sweet Papa. She’d never heard a peep during his afternoon naps while Mama washed and put away the dinner dishes. Nor did he ever fuss when Mama, her kitchen work finished, gently shook his shoulder so he could return to the fields.
“Thank you, Mother,” he always said before grabbing his straw hat and heading for the door.
She couldn’t imagine Papa hissing at anyone.
Kate rubbed her temples and was worrying about the child’s eardrums when lightning lit up the room. She began counting, to tell if the storm was growing closer or farther away. Another flash, but no sound that she could tell. Had the snoring drowned out the thunder? She tried not to panic. If she couldn’t hear thunder, she couldn’t hear a mad dog yowling outside the window.
She pulled the curtains to and moved the bassinet away from the window. After a lingering last look at Tiger, she tiptoed back toward bed. She put a knee down on the mattress and froze at the creak of a wooden slat beneath. She held her breath when her husband made a smacking sound with his lips. She relaxed when he resumed snoring. By the time she found her way to his side, he was going at it as loudly as before. When he fell into a rhythm with his brother, she began to envision steam engines. She’d never set foot in a factory, but how could anything make more noise than these two?
♦ ♦ ♦
The men were up and ready for coffee when Kate rose from her fitful sleep. Before his accident, Bill at least would’ve had the cow milked by now, even at the risk of burning down the barn with the kerosene lamp. Getting a chore out of the way she could understand. But Pete? He didn’t leave for the sawmill until 7. And in the two months he’d been staying with them, he’d yet to offer to milk that cow once.
Kate crossed into the kitchen and put a pot to boil.
“You boys sleep all right?” she said, her sarcasm obvious only to herself.
Their “Yeps” or “Sures” or whatever came out as indecipherable grunts that she didn’t bother asking them to repeat.
When the coffee was ready, she poured three cups and set two of them on the table. She returned to the stove and began to grease a skillet for eggs.
“What are we gonna do about your dog, Pete?” she said without facing him.
The silence was hot enough to fry bacon. So was the angry scrape of chair legs across a pine floor.
“Tell you what, Bill, if that dog has an actual fit today – one that you see with your own eyes – you have my permission to shoot it.”
“All right,” came the answer.
“Tell her nothing for me this morning,” Pete said. “I’ll be getting ready for work.”
Kate nodded and lit a cigarette. She cracked an egg. Breakfast for two, then, coming right up.
She looked out the back window as the eggs firmed over the fire. The storm had cleared the air, and she imagined how refreshing the morning breeze was going to feel when she went out to milk the cow. She didn’t hear Pete’s dog barking. Maybe he’d run off again. After yesterday, she’d be glad if he never came back.
“Think you can do it?” she said as she set the eggs on the table and refilled Bill’s coffee cup. “Shoot the dog if you have to?”
Bill took a bite and shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “My trigger finger’s tore up so bad I doubt I could fire a BB gun. And you saw yesterday how clumsy I am with my left hand still. We’ll see.”
“Well, we have to do something if he has another fit,” she said. “I guess I could try to shoot him. I don’t want to, but I would.”
“Yep.”
She drained her coffee cup.
“I’m heading to the barn to milk,” she said. “I’ll eat and clean up when I get back. Keep an eye on Tiger for me?”
“Yep.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The homemade stool, its seat wallowed from years of butts sliding across, pegged legs scarred by hoof kicks, was more comfortable to Kate than any chair in the house. She scooted it over with her foot and set the enameled bucket beneath the udder.
The cow paid no mind, chewing on hay.
“There you go, missy,” she said, gently scratching the coarse red hair. “You gonna be a good girl this morning?”
Kate reached in and gently began to massage the udder. The cow munched without complaint, and Kate wrapped her hands around two of the squishy teats. She rubbed them a few times, then pressed them harder between her thumbs and forefingers. She began to squeeze, right hand first, and twist the teat inward. Warm milk hit the bottom of the empty pail with a familiar splat. She repeated this pumping motion with her other hand and soon was in a rhythm: Squeeze, twist, splat. Squeeze, twist, splat. It was melodic, hypnotic.
Thoughts of Pete’s dog broke the spell. She looked over to make sure the barn door was shut. She made an inventory of possible weapons: leather horsewhip, rusted sickle, heavy pitchfork. She didn’t know how effectively she could wield any of them, but she wanted to be ready to fight with whatever was at hand.
Now it was squeeze, twist, splash as the bucket began to fill. The dog faded from her mind. Her brother-in-law, too. Squeeze, twist, splash.
Kate stopped once she felt a light sprinkle of milk on her forearms. She eased the pail between her feet and started to pet the cow again.
“There you go, missy,” she said. “Your work is done for the day. You go back to chewing your cud, and I’ll get back to my other chores. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Sticker burs attached themselves to Kate’s socks and the hem of her dress as she waded through the high grass on the way back from the barn. They kept tweezers in an old tin can on the porch to deal with the burs, and she’d pick them out before going back inside to start dinner. She needed to pick a few peas in the garden first.
Kate was thinking about the peas when she heard the harsh, staccato yelping of Pete’s dog. It was close to the house, close to the baby. She set the milk bucket down hard and broke into a run. The dog was drunkenly spinning in circles when she banged the gate open and swept past. She had to get to the baby. “Bill! Bill!” she cried.
Kate was out of breath as she bounded into the yard, eyes darting from the house to the well shed, along the far fenceline and up the worn path toward the road. The dog yelped again, and she ran that way.
“Bill!” she cried again. Then she saw them, baby cradled in Bill’s left arm, shielded by his daddy’s body from the snarling dog, Bill waving it away with his injured hand.
Kate sprinted to a spot between them, balling her fist and bellowing, “Go on, get!” while stamping the ground.
The dog turned on her and set its front paws wide, snapping its teeth. Slobbery foam bubbled from its mouth and fell to the ground in heaving piles. It crouched to lurch forward.
“I said get out of here!” Kate screamed with another stamp of the ground. Then another before the cur slinked away, loping back toward the pasture and the woods beyond, glancing back to glare.
Kate waited till the dog was past the edge of the trees before taking the wailing baby from her husband’s outstretched arm.
“Get the gun,” she said as they marched toward the house.
Kate mounted the first porch step and called out for Bill to fetch the milk bucket she’d left in the field.
♦ ♦ ♦
Kate bounced the baby in her arms, cooing and shushing, when Bill walked in from the porch. She was nursing again and instinctively turned away, then caught herself and turned back to face him.
“Guess I don’t need to be modest around you,” she said, though she felt herself blush.
“You’re not going to like this,” he said, turning the milk bucket upside down as he approached. “I had to shoo another cow who’d already drained it and was licking it clean.”
“I’m just glad everyone is safe,” Kate said. “Now, come kiss me and then go get that gun like I asked.”
He seemed amused, or at least relieved that his wife wasn’t mad, and she followed him with her eyes as he pulled his shotgun from a handmade rack. It had twin barrels, side by side, and a scarred stock. Bill had been using the gun since he was a kid. His mother had given it to them as a wedding present. Bill laid it across the table next to the empty milk can, then went to a dresser in the hallway and grabbed four shells from a shallow drawer.
Kate watched him break open the shotgun over his right forearm and insert two of the shells. He locked the barrel back into place, but without the elegant confidence she remembered from before the accident.
She was grinning when Bill turned around.
“What?” he said, offering a small smile of his own.
“Nothing,” she said, then crossed over into the bedroom, where she eased the baby into the bassinet. She drew a deep breath and smoothed her dress, hoping that Bill had picked up on her hints and would be standing close when she turned around. She felt exhilarated by the danger they’d faced down together. Besides, they hadn’t had much privacy in the evenings since Pete had arrived.
The creaking spring of the screen door told her the moment had passed.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Main thing is, don’t yank on the trigger,” Bill said, placing his hand under hers and steadying the shotgun she was aiming at a corner fence post behind the garden. “You’ve got to squeeze it gently. Try breathing out; that can help.” They had their backs to the house, and Bill checked once more to make sure none of the cows were in the line of a test fire.
“It’s also gonna kick,” he added, “so you need to set one foot behind you and brace yourself.”
Kate lowered the gun and looked up at Bill.
“Anything else you should mention?”
“Just that, you know, you want to be careful you don’t pull both triggers at the same time. Do that, and this gun will not just kick you but beat you once it’s got you down on the ground.”
Kate would have to settle her own nerves. She had chopped the head off a rattlesnake once with a hoe, but that was the only animal she’d ever killed. And Papa never let her shoot his guns. Even when he took her fishing with him, he always baited her hooks and removed any fish she caught.
She lifted the shotgun again and took aim at the piece of cardboard Bill had tacked onto the fencepost for a target. She squinted both eyes and squeezed the trigger. To her surprise, she found that firing a gun was easy. She felt the kick, but she had kept the stock pressed firmly against her shoulder, and she doubted it had even made a mark.
“There you go,” Bill said, walking over to inspect the target. “It’s like you been doing this your whole life,” he said, admiring the spray of perforated holes. “Not bad.”
Kate smiled. It felt good to be complimented. Felt good, too, when Bill put a hand on her shoulder as she took aim for her second shot.
♦ ♦ ♦
Kate sat down on the bench on the porch and pulled her dress up far enough that she could cross her legs. She took the tweezers and began to pull on the sticker burs that were stuck in her sock.
“Do you think it’s rabies?” she asked.
Pete’s dog had been gone long enough that the baby had finished his nap. Kate also had washed clothes and pinned them on the line.
“Don’t know. He could’ve just gone crazy,” said Bill. He had the whetstone out again to practice with his pocketknife.
The baby lay on a pallet, teething on an old leather strap.
Kate noticed that Bill was getting better at sharpening the knife, and she wished he’d be as diligent with the shotgun. But she also knew that might be more dangerous. She felt around the back of her sock and yelped when a finger got caught on a sticker bur.
“I’m really worried your hand might get infected if we don’t get you to a doctor,” she said, still fiddling with the sock.
“I said I’m fine,” Bill said. “Pete says … .”
Kate cut him off. “I know what Pete says happened over there during the war, but we don’t know how much of that is true.” She knew Bill felt guilty about not getting called up to fight, but she wanted him to know how relieved she’d been when he got the letter saying he wouldn’t have to. She would’ve said so now, but she worried it might embarrass him. Besides, she didn’t like to think about wars and what they did to beautiful young boys who grow up to be soldiers.
She gave her sock another feel and turned her attention to the burs stuck to her dress.
Later, she would swear that she felt the dog’s presence before she heard it howl.
♦ ♦ ♦
“He’s back.”
“Yep,” Bill answered. “Are you ready? Still think you can do it?”
“I don’t see we have much choice. Get Tiger in the house in case this goes cockeyed.”
“I can just hold him.”
“Not if something goes wrong and we have to break and run. Just take him inside and close the door. We should’ve thought about this.”
“All right.”
Bill looked worried and disappointed both. Probably felt like he was letting her and the baby down. She put a hand on the inside of his arm.
“Look, you can’t help what happened to your hand. Do you hear me? Right now, I need you to protect Tiger. He needs us both now.”
She nudged him toward the porch, where he picked up the boy and walked inside the house. She took the shotgun from the bench where they’d laid it, slipped in a pair of fresh shells, and snapped the barrel into place.
“Lock that door,” she said.
Kate started down the steps with her head on a swivel, eyes and ears on high alert, the double-barrel pointed down. Why that dog had taken to her brother-in-law, she couldn’t imagine. She always thought dogs had a better sense of people.
She heard what sounded like a sneeze and moved quietly toward it. The dog was in the shade of a persimmon tree, its whole body shaking like it had just crawled out of a river. There was another spray of saliva. Then the dog slid to the ground, yowled, got up and shook its head some more, pawed at its ears and eyes.
She moved in a wide arc, never taking her eyes off the dog as she stepped in slightly and pulled the shotgun closer to firing level. She was angling for a shot away from the house. When the dog finally saw her, or sensed her, maybe, she drew her bead.
The animal didn’t seem quite sure what lay in its rheumy gaze, and its growling felt more like a question than a threat. Suddenly, it drew back into a position to pounce and bared a set of impossibly white teeth. Kate was ready and surprised at the same time. She exhaled slowly, just like they’d practiced, and fired. The blast sent the dog back and upward, its front paws flailing wildly.
She pulled the second trigger, and this time the dog fell straight back and didn’t move again. She kept her bead and stared at the blood and fur and gristle. The animal’s head was mostly gone, and her second shot had ripped its chest apart. She thought she heard a child cry in the distance. She became aware of Bill rounding the corner with a broom in hand.
“You can set the gun down now,” he said, poking the carcass with the broomstick. “It’s only got the two shots. You won’t need a third one, anyway.”
“Tiger’s inside?” she asked, handing him the shotgun and taking the broom.
“He’s fine, but it sounds like your second shot woke him up. We can leave him in the bassinet till we get this cleaned up.”
“I’ll get something to haul this thing off on. There’s an old burlap sack in the barn. Looks like you ruined my broom, too. There’s blood all over the handle.”
Bill laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he said. “I wanted to make sure he was dead. I’ll go get the burn barrel ready. I don’t think either one of us is in any shape to dig a hole and bury this thing.”
Kate was already headed toward the barn.
“We’ll burn the broom while we’re at it,” she said, dropping it to the ground.
Neither of them noticed Pete standing in the yard. One of their cousins who also worked at the mill had a wagon and had dropped him off at the road. Curled, yellow wood shavings stuck to the sweat stains on his chambray work shirt.
“That my dog over there?” he asked, pointing with his chin.
Kate turned toward the men, on alert again.
Bill held up the shotgun and grinned. “A couple buckshot did the trick.”
“You needed more than one? You never were much of a shot.”
It was the kind of remark he often made and tried to pass off as a joke. But Kate sensed real menace this time and tried to warn Bill with a wave.
“Nah, it was Kate,” he said, beaming. “She did pretty good, too. Stopped him with a headshot and finished him off right square in the chest.”
Kate stiffened.
“Excuse me?” Pete said. “Your wife shot my dog? I said it was okay if you had to shoot him, but I never said nothing about your wife.”
“Come on, Pete,” Bill said. “You were with me at the mill when I cut my hand. You know I can’t hardly pick up a gun right now. It was my gun, and I showed her how to pull the trigger. Your dog didn’t suffer, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Pete rushed his brother and gave him a shove.
“I don’t give a good goddam about that or about your hand,” he snarled. “I wouldn’t give two shits if you had your dick and both arms cut off in that saw. That was my dog, and I won’t stand for any woman killing my dog. Especially not that bitch you’re married to.”
A part of Kate hoped Bill would reload the shotgun and fire it right into Pete’s belly. Or at least whack him across the jaw with it. But she knew better than to say anything. Bill took another step back and looked down at his boots.
“I’m sorry, Pete.” His voice was quieter. “We were just trying to protect Tiger. That’s all. We didn’t mean to offend you.”
Pete bared his teeth, and Kate couldn’t help noticing they were not nearly as white as the dog’s. Noticed, too, that he was panting, balling his fists and unclenching them in quick, furious bursts.
The baby cried inside the house, which seemed to distract everyone. Pete glared over at Kate and spit tobacco juice. He turned back to Bill and sneered.
“Gimme three dollars,” he said. “That ought to cover the loss of my dog.”
“Pete, that dog’s a stray and you ain’t had him two months,” Bill said. “You never even gave him a name.”
“Don’t matter,” Pete said. “He was mine, and that bitch killed him. Now give me three dollars before I knock hell outta you.”
Kate refused to stop herself as Bill reached for his wallet.
“No!” she screamed, grabbing the shotgun and pointing it at her brother-in-law. Both shells were spent, but she counted on Pete not remembering that.
“Turn around and go,” she said. “Right now.”
She made a jabbing motion with the gun, aiming right at his chest. “You’re not welcome here.”
A pounding heartbeat thundered inside her head. What would she do if she felt Bill’s hand on her shoulder, heard him tell her to drop the gun, to let him handle it?
Bill stood pat. Pete spit another brown stream. Then he headed back toward the road, punching the air.
Kate kept the gun up until he was out of sight.
♦ ♦ ♦
They lugged the carcass to the burn barrel in silence. Kate was still reeling from all the violence, and now she recognized a rage inside her husband as well. She was afraid to ask who it was aimed at.
What was left of Pete’s dog bobbed on the scratchy burlap as they made their way through the pasture. Bill held onto his end of their makeshift litter with his good arm, leaving it to Kate to balance the burlap so that nothing slopped off. After Pete’s stormy exit, she had shoveled as much of the gore as she could atop the dog while Bill fetched a bag of sawdust and dumped it over the remaining blood and spittle. He spread it with a hoe into a thick, even covering.
She didn’t want to leave a contaminated trail that Tiger or some other animal might get into.
Bill’s chest heaved as he led the way with long, determined strides. Kate kept an eye out for salamander holes or manure piles that might break an ankle. Neither spoke. When they reached the barrel, Bill let go of his end of the burlap and she almost got sloshed.
Bill pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and gave it a spark, then used his lighter to ignite the paper and kindling inside the barrel. He still wouldn’t look at Kate. She had one more question to settle.
While they waited for the fire to catch, Kate took the skinny cigarette from between his fingers and took a long drag. He turned his head in surprise, and she locked eyes with him. To her relief, she saw something akin to wonder as she handed the cigarette back and slipped it between his lips in a slow, deliberate motion. A little-boy smile curled at one corner as he took a final draw and flicked it into the now-crackling fire.
Kate stepped forward, put a hand on his chest. His smile grew wider.
“Now would be a good time for a kiss,” she said.
Ronnie Crocker spent a career in daily newspapers, writing and editing about everything from capital punishment to craft beer. His experiences in journalism now inform his fiction. You can read more of Ronnie’s work on Substack, where he writes about Texas and other things. He lives in Houston.
Share this story: