Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
SUT LOVINGOOD'S DOG. |
 | SUT LOVINGOOD'S DOG. Sut Lovingood |  |
SUT LOVINGOOD'S DOG.
“Boys, I never told eny on ye ove my dog scrape,
did I?”
“No, Sut, not as we knows on; you've mixed up
dog so in all yer doins, that we can't tell adzactly
what dog scrape ye mean.”
“Well, I mean ole `Stuff-gut.' Did eny on ye ever
see 'im?”
“No.”
“Well, ye missed a site. He wur a powerful dog,
an' sometimes ye'd think that he wur two ur three dogs,
ef ye seed him eat; not a-countin ove his tail, fur he
hedn't eny. When he wur a pup, dad, durn him, tuck
'im tu a straw-cutter, jamed his starn clost up tu the
frame ove the cussed gullotine, an' foch down the knife,
an' thar lay the hole tail in the troft, like a letter S, an'
here run the pup a youlin like a hound, an' his starn
looked like you'd busted a ripe tomatis onto hit. Well,
it changed his looks mitely, an' his nater more. Now
as to his looks, rite ontu the spot whar his tail orter
staid, thar grow'd a bunch ove stiff, ash-cullured bristles,
what pinted every way, like onto a split broom
this fuzzy lookin patch ove har, the pint ove his back-bone,
kivered with a gristil, stuck out like onto a pidgin's
aig, caze he sot ontu hit so much. Well, the afar
looked mity sassy and fite like, eny how, purticulerly
when he wur a struttin up tu a big strange dog tu smell
ove 'im. It made his sturn look hier than his sholders,
pupendiculer and squar; an' he hed a way ove walkin
slow an' solemn like I've seed yung fellers do at camp-meetin
when approachin ove a gal at the spring with
thar stud-hoss close on, agwine sorter side ways an'
mity keerful. I've seed little hogs go through the
same motions, wun in a peach orchard, an' tuther in the
lane, when they thot they wanted tu fite, an' wud a dun
hit but fur the fence what wur atween em. I never
found out that he wur good fur enything but tu keep
bred frum mouldin, an' meat frum spilin; an' when he
wanted tu show glad, es he hed no tale tu wag, he
wagged his hole sturn, an' his hine feet slipped about
on the groun, sorter like a fashunabil gal walks when
she thinks sum he feller is lookin at 'er. He wur cullured
adzackly like a mildewed saddil skirt, an' he kerried
his years on a nowin sort of cock, like ontu a muel's
when he is skeered. He'd whiskers round his eyes, an'
on his hine laigs, an' must had a pow'ful activ consince,
fur he wur the meanest countinenced dog I ever seed
in my life. Now as tu his nater, yu cud never set 'im
ontu enything yu wanted tun, an' cudn't call 'im ofen
skeered all the time, an' stud redy tu run ur tu steal, as
the chances mout be; an' takin 'im altogether, he wur
jis' the rite sort ove a dog tu belong tu me—not wurth
a durn, an' orter been killed afore his eyes got open.
“Well, Stuff-gut he follered me tu town wun day
jis' caze I didn't want 'im tu; an' while I wur gittin on
a hed ove steam at the doggery, he started roun town
on a stealin experdition ove his own, an' like his cussed
fool owner, got hissef inter a fust rate scrape an' skeer
without half tryin, an' in less nor no time at that.
“I hed gin myself a shake in the doggery, an' hear
the whisky in me slosh, I know'd I hed my load aboard,
so I cum out intu the street, an'—the— fust thing I
seed he cum a tarin down the street fifteen times faster
nor I thot he cud run, jis' a bowin ove hissef, his years
sot flat ontu his neck, an' his bristles all sot like a black
pearch's top fin, his eyes shot up fast an' tite, and he
hed on a sort ove haness made outer strings, sorter like
the set dad wore when he acted hoss, an' he wer haulin
ove an' old stage lantern and hit filled with wet powder,
an' sot afire.
“Now the sparks, an' the scizlin an' the dust, an' the
ratlin, an' the youlin, an' growlin, an' barkin, an' the
eighty-nine ur ninety dogs ove all kinds what wur a
chasin ove him made sum sensashun. Well—hit—did.
Whew-w-w! When I seed him pass without nowin me
I thot ove Dad's ho'net tribulashun, an' felt that thar
got mad an' looked roun fur sum wun tu vent rath on,
an' seed a long-legged cuss, sorter ove the Lovingood
stripe, with his hat cocked before, sittin a straddil ove
a hoss-rack, a swingin his legs an' a-singin—
You show me your foot, an' I'll show you mine.”
“Thinks I, yu'll do, ef yu didn't start my dog on
that hellward experdition ove his'n, yu'll do tu put it
on enyhow, so here goes. Sez I: `Mister-what-hed-my-dog-dun-tu-yu?'
He pade no tention, but kep on
a-singin—
Shot 'em in the eye, an' never toch a har.”
“I seed it wur no use tryin tu breed a quarrel; so
that I mout be able tu breed a fite, an' I jist lent him
a slatharin calamity, rite whar his nose commenced a
sproutin from atween his eyes, wif a ruff rock about the
size ove a goose aig. Hit fotch 'im! He drapped ofen
the hoss-rack, but hilt a squirrel-holt ontu the pole wif
his paws an' hine feet, an' hung back down. I jumped
hed fust through, atween his belly an' the pole; my
heft broke his holt, an' we cum tu the ground a-fitin—
me ondermost, an' turn'd heads an' tails. So the fust
thing I did, was tu shut my jaws ontu a mouthful ove
his steak, ni ontu the place wher yer foot itches to go
when yu ar in kickin distance ove a fop. He fit mitily
SUT LOVINGOOD'S DOG.
"Jist as he got clost tu the carryall, the powder cotch fire, an' soon arterwards went
off, an' so did he, head fust." Page 153.
[Description: 565EAF. Illustration Page. Image of an exploding horse-drawn wagon. In the forground stands a disheveled looking man rubbing one eye in a sleepy manner. His other hand is on the open fly of his pants. Behind him pots and pans fly out of the wagon, and a the partially naked rear end of a man can be seen flying off in a cloud of smoke. Even further in the background a dog trailing a leash is running away.]
ove bar in 'im, fur he cudn't stand ticklin behind, ef it
mout be called ticklin at all; fur every time he got his
hine legs onder him, he tried his durndest tu jump
loose; but my holt hilt, an' we would take our fust persition
agin. I thot ove a box ove matches what I hed
in my pocket, so I foch the whole boxful a rake ontu
the gravil, an' stuffed em all a-blazin inter one ove the
pockets in his coat-tail. Now, mind, he now'd nuthin
ove these perseedins, fur his mind wur exercized powful
about the hurtin I wur a helpin 'im tu behine. I
no'd he'd soon show strong signs ove wantin tu go.
So the fust big rare he fotch arter the fire reached his
hide, I jist let my mouth fly open—so—an' he went!
his hole tail in a blaze!
“Rite here, boys, I must tell yu sumthin I didn't no
mysef, ur durn me, ef I hedn't let him beat me inter a
poultis, afore I'd a-sot him on fire—I'd a-seed him
durn'd fust. The thot on it skeers me yet. He had
two pounds ove gunpowder in tother pocket, a-takin
home to a shootin match.
“Well, he aimed tu run past a tin peddlin waggin'
what was a-standin in the street, with a fust-rate set ove
old live hoss bones atween the shafts, while the Yankee
wus in the doggery, a-firin up tu leave town. Jist as
he got clost tu the carryall, the powder cotch fire' an'
soon arterwards went off, an' so did he, head fust, frog
fashion, rite thru the top load ove tin war. He lit a
off tu his shoulders, the hine aind ove his galluses wus
raped round his neck, the tale ove his shut wus loose,
an, up in the air thirty feet, still a-risin an' blazin like a
komit; his britches hung loose on the frunt side, like
ontu a forked aprun, while the sittin part ove em wus
blowed tu kingdom cum, and so wur everything else
belongin tu that regin, while his back wus as black as
a side ove upper lether. It rained tin buckets, an'
strainers, an' tin cups, an' pepper boxes, an' pans, an'
stage ho'ns, all over that street, fur two minits an' a 'alf.
“Now that explosion, an' the tin war ratlin an' a
rainin, made a rite peart noise, specially ove a still day
in fac, enuf tu wake up the ole hoss bones an' gin him
the idear that he'd best leave town quick; so he laid
his years back an' straitened out his tail an' shot. He
made kindlin-wood outen the waggin agin a sine-post,
an' betuck hissef tu the woods, stretched out about
twenty feet long, an' not mor'n three feet high on the
withers, with jis about enuf harness stickin tu him tu
make a cullar for a bell cow.
“Thar wus wun cussed nutmeg-makin Yankee broke
plum up, an' I'm durn'd glad ove it. Old Rack Back
Davy, the hoss-rack man, made fur the river, an' I follered
tu the bank tu see ef he hedn't drownded hissef;
but no sir! Thar he wur, about the middil ove the
river, a-swimin fur tuther bank, jist a splitin the warter
wide open, an' his busted britches legs a-floatin arter
he spected tu see the devil; his face wur as black as a
pot, sept a white ring roun his eyes, an' the smoke wur
still risin frum amung the stumps ove his burnt har.
His hec, boys, in that river, wus the ugliest, scuriest,
an' savidgest site I ever seed or spec tu see in this
wurld, eny how. I dreams ove it yet o'nights, an' it
skares the swet outen me. I seed a lot ove fellers a
fishin onder the bank, so I thot I'd help him on a leetle
faster, an' I hollered, `ketch the murderer, five hundred
dullars an' a big hoss reward. He's kill'd an 'oman an'
nine children, an' I speck a dog, an' like tu whipped
anuther plum tu deth.' They jumped intur thar cunoes
an' tuck arter him, openin on his trail like a pack
ove houns. The last I ever seed ove him, he wur a
rackin up the tother bank, on his all-fours, an' looked
like an ole bar what hed jist cum outen a harycane.
“He still kept up his lookin back, an' I speck wus
the wust scared man in the wurld, an' ef he aint ded,
he's runnin yet. The idear now begin tu soak thru my
har that owin to the fuss Stuff-gut an' me hed raised,
that perhaps I'd better scoot, lest they mout want me.
So I left in a peart trot, an' soon got on ole Stuff's trail.
It wur like a waggin hed been drug upside down by a
par ove runaway muels, an' the dry grass an' leaves,
an' in sum places the fences wer sot afire. He tuck to
the mountins, an' turn'd wolf, an' tuck up the trade ove
sheep-killin fur a livin, an' the hole settlement is now
hes changed his dispersition agin, all showin the
pow'ful changes that kin be made in even a dog. I
cum outen that scrape purty well, yet I hed tu show
the family dispersition tu make d—d fools ove tharsefs.”
“How, Sut?”
“Why, I ought to a-toted off a lode ove that permiscus
tin war. Oughtent I? say!”
| SUT LOVINGOOD'S DOG. Sut Lovingood | |