The kids are still screaming at the top of their lungs in the yard. He’s worried about them being outside. There’s been a rabies epidemic: foaming foxes and rabid raccoons running amuck. Even flying squirrels have attacked innocent people. And just last week, Mr. P. had to take his squirrel dog off, a little feist he had named Frank that was white with black spots over both eyes. He got him from a family of black folks down the road and they all swore up and down that his mama was a good one, had treed as many as sixteen in one morning. Mr. P. raised that dog from a puppy, played with him, fed him, let him sleep on his stomach and in front of the fire, and took him out in the summer with a dried squirrel skin and let him trail it all over the yard before he hung it up in a tree and let him tree it. He waited for old Frank to get a little older and then took him out the first frosty morning and shot a squirrel in front of him, didn’t kill it on purpose, just wounded it, and let old Frank get ahold of it and get bitten in the nose because he’d heard all his life that doing that would make a squirrel dog every time if the dog had it in him. And old Frank did. He caught that squirrel and fought it all over the ground, squalling, with the squirrel balled up on his nose, bleeding, and finally killed it. After that he hated squirrels so bad he’d tree every squirrel he smelled. They killed nine opening day, one over the limit. Mr. P. was proud of old Frank.

But last week he took old Frank out in the pasture and shot him in the head with a .22 rifle because his wife said the rabies were getting too close to home.

Now why did I do that? Mr. P. wonders. Why did I let her talk me into shooting old Frank? I remember he used to come in here and lay down on my legs while I was watching “Dragnet.” I’d pat him on the head and he’d close his eyes and curl up and just seem happy as anything. He’d even go to sleep sometimes, just sleep and sleep. And he wouldn’t mess in the house either. Never did. He’d scratch on the door till somebody let him out. Then he’d come back in and hop up here and go to sleep.

Mr. P. feels around under the couch to see if it’s still there. It is. He just borrowed it a few days ago, from his neighbor, Hulet Steele. He doesn’t even know if it’ll work. But he figures it will. He told Hulet he wanted it for rats. He told Hulet he had some rats in his corncrib.