Kentucky Straight: Stories

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Not a one on this hillside finished high school. Around here a man is judged by how he acts, not how smart he’s supposed to be. I don’t hunt, fish, or work. Neighbors say I think too much. They say I’m like my father and Mom worries that maybe they’re right.

When I was a kid we had a coonhound that got into a skunk, then had the gall to sneak under the porch. He whimpered in the dark and wouldn’t come out. Dad shot him. It didn’t stink less but Dad felt better. He told Mom that any dog who didn’t know coon from skunk ought to be killed.

“He’s still back under the porch,” Mom said.

“I know it,” Dad said. “I loved Tater, too. I don’t reckon I could stand to bury him.”

He looked at my brother and me.

“Don’t you even think of putting them boys under that porch,” Mom yelled. “It’s your dog. You get it.”

She held her nose and walked around the house. Dad looked at us again. “You boys smell anything?”

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