Willy Eugene's Pet Bull

© Copyright 2005 by Gary L. Benton, All Rights Reserved

“Ya know, there just ain't much a redneck doesn't know something about!” My Uncle Andy said as he picked up his coffee cup and took a good swig of the thick hot liquid.

We were all seated at the big booth in my Uncle Andy's restaurant having breakfast. The time was early, or way before the rooster crows, and along with breakfast we were having us a discussion. We always stopped to eat at Uncle Andy's in the early mornings before we went hunting or fishing. It was located in a small hole in the wall next to the bus stop.

This morning the group was made up of Bubba, William Robert (Billy Bob), Uncle Floyd, T-Bone, and me. Of course, as soon as we were seated, Uncle Andy joined us at the table.

I am constantly surprised that anyone can drink Andy's coffee. He completely amazed me when he would gulp it the way he did, since it was thick enough to tar paper a roof with. He claims it was his time in the Navy that taught him to make good coffee . He further stated that after drinking his coffee a person had a deep appreciation for only the best. Well, I can tell you for sure, that I can agree with. Seems right after I tasted his coffee, I developed a deep appreciation for good coffee as well! And, ANY coffee was better than Andy's! But, the man can cook!

“Well, I ain't so shore I agree with ya one hundert percent on that Andy. But, you always been a bit on the dumb side. Heck far, most the time you don't know come heah from fetch.” T-Bone said as he took a big bite of biscuit and gravy off his fork. The bite was so big it made his right cheek bulge like a chipmunk storing food for the winter as he chewed. He and Andy were about the same age and size, which means old and fat.

“Bullchips! You know and I know, that we both know, that everyone else knows, that all of us know, just what we know. And, YOU know it! You know what I mean!” Andy continued, but he had changed from sippin' coffee to eating his grits.

“Uncle Andy? Uncle Andy? Listen to me here. I ain't got no idea what in the tar-nation you are talking about. What is all this, you know and they know garbage? You sound like a hungry Yankee used car salesman. You're making no sense at all. You're talking just to hear yourself talk.” William Robert spoke as he leaned forward and waved a gravy-coated spoon under my Uncle Andy's chin.

For a few minutes nothing was said at all. You could feel the tension in the air and we all knew my uncle was mad. Andy, obviously upset at first because we not agree with his views, finally realized we didn't even know what his views were. He had not done a very good job of conveying his thoughts, nor his strong opinions. So, he shoveled the grits in. I watched him eat two bowls of them.

I hated watching Andy eat grits. See, he put syrup on them, butter, ketchup, and then ate them with a spoon! AND, from a BOWL! Way I figured it; he should have been arrested for improper ingestion of the national Southern breakfast dish . It is sort of a capital crime against all Southern culture. And all of you rednecks know what I'm talking about! Ya just don't eat grits with a spoon and for shore not out of a bowl.

Finally after a few very long minutes Bubba stands up and yells, “Nurse! We need some coffee over here!” Every head in the place turned to look at this loud mouth redneck dressed in bibs, flannel shirt, boots, and ball cap. Yep, you guessed it, he looked like all the rest of us. Be hard to pick him out in a police line up if we were with him. Well, maybe not that difficult since he is a fairly big boy. As soon as Nadine Lucille turned and started toward our table Bubba sat back down.

Andy just shook his head and looked to the heavens. Way I figured it he had no reason to call upon the heavens, since all the folks at the table were his kinfolks. Andy could always blame a few ancestors, but not heaven for the mess he had on his hands. As Nadine arrived at the table with the coffee pot, Andy got up and walked off toward the kitchen mumbling to himself. He had taken to doing that every time we stopped by for a visit.

“Bubba,” Nadine said as she bent over and poured his coffee, “What is all this shouting about a nurse?”

Bubba gave her a big crooked grin and said, “Well, when I was hurt in the Vee-it-nam war, the only way I could get what I needed in the V.A. hospital was to scream for a nurse. It's an old habit.”

“Oh, you were a war hero Bubba? I didn't know that.” Nadine leaned forward until her face was almost touching Bubba's as she spoke. I know he could feel her breath on his cheeks.

I watched in anticipation as white pepper gravy ran off of Bubba's lip and down the right side of his cheek. It took a few seconds before Bubba was able to speak, but finally he said, “I twernt no war hero Nadine Lucille. I was just a common soldier doing my duty. I just got hit by some shrap-nails from an explosion once is all.”

Nadine raised her right hand and wiped the gravy off of Bubba's cheek. She gave him a big smile and a sexy wink. Nadine then stood straight, put her hands on her wide hips and said, “I don't agree with you at all Bubba. I think you were a hero and you are just too shy to admit it.”

I suspect she was going to say more, but the small bell mounted above the door jingled and an older couple entered. Nadine gave us a big smile and said, “But, I can't argue with you over it right now Bubba Lee, because here comes Mister Johnson with his old lady. You boys need anything, give me a yell. See ya all later.”

As she turned and walked over to the table were the Johnson's had seated themselves every head at our booth was on her. She was a mighty nice looking woman.

As if he could hear my thinking, Billy Bob said, “That is one very nice woman. Not only is she very attractive, but she is an intelligent woman too. The man who catches her will be one lucky man. She can burn the biscuits at my house any time.”

“Well, my biscuits ain't exackly a burnin' right now, but they sure enough be smokin' a little.” Bubba said as he looked over at Nadine.

“Speaking of luck. Did ya all here about what them tore-nad-ders did to Willy Eugene's place when they blew through here last week?” Asked Uncle Floyd.

I took a sip of my buttermilk, wiped off my mouth with the back of my hand and said, “Nope. But, I thought everyone was safe. I didn't heah of no body getting hurt.”

“Nobody hurt, but Willy lost his mobile home, a chicken house and a pretty long stretch of wood fence line. It's likely to take him a spell repairing it too. They are still finding chickens in the woods and from different directions for miles.” Bubba added.

“I heard his rooster crows at odd hours since the storm. He told me it crowed a little after midnight the other night. He said he didn't know what time hit was, so he got up and headed to work. Willy said he was half way to work before he realized his rooster had gone psycho on him.” Billy Bob stated flatly with a voice of knowledge.

“Cycle? You mean he taught that rooster to ride a bicycle? Now, that would be a thing to see wouldn't it Mule?” Bubba asked me with a grin.

“Did his live stock get out of it? They all make it?” I asked as I scooped up the last bite of my hot pork sausage on my fork.

“Bubba, you quit now. You know exackly what I meant. You are just being stupid.” Billy Bob said with a voice that shook just a little from frustration.

“Everything, but one of his dawgs. His bagel and his puddle are ok, but his pet bull didn't make it. Right now, everybody is livin' in the barn. They will be there at least till Willy can get a new used double wide mobile home back up on the cinder blocks.” Added Floyd as he looked around the table.

“His pet bull? I didn't even know he had a bull. Of course everybody knows he's got a few head of old milk cows.” Billy Bob commented as he put his coffee cup down and pulled out his pouch of chewin' tobacco. He filled his right cheek with chew and worked the cud until it felt right to him.

Uncle Floyd pulled out his old brier pipe and stuffed it. He lit it and puffed a few times before he continued his story. “Not his pet bull, his pet bull . You know, his dawg. His pet bull .”

“Floyd, they are called pit bulls, not pet bulls.” Billy Bob said.

“Pit bull, pet bull, it don't pay me no never mind. Y'all know what I am talking about. I am a-talking about dawgs. You know, a pet bull is a dawg with a permanent case of PNS.” Floyd said with a tone of deep frustration in his voice.

“He had insurance didn't he? And that is PMS, Floyd, not PNS.” Bubba said as he lit one of the huge cheap cigars he smoked.

“I cain't see what he sees in them pet bulls. They are about as friendly that big city Yankee divorce lawyer Bubba's wife had during his divorce.” T-Bone said with a grin.

“Nope, he had no insurance at all. His mobile home was a gift from his momma-in-law and it wasn't insured at all. And, Bubba, I don't care if it is PMS…. and not PNX. It don't matter none to me, because you knew what I meant all along.” Floyd commented between puffs on his pipe.

“Yep, them pet bulls is just like Yankee lawyers…they both go for your throat and then the kill.” Bubba interjected quickly.

I looked at my watch and realized it was going to be daylight in less than an hour. I wanted to be on the lake way before then and ready to fish at first light. I stood, finished off my coffee, placed the cup on the table, and said, “Well, at least Willy's still got his bagel and the puddle. That bagel is a good rabbit dawg. Actually, one of the best I have ever seen. But, personally, I don't see what him, or his woman, see in them puddles. Some kind of French breed, ain't they? I hate that little ball of cut fur it's got on the tip of its tail.”

All of us picked up our bills and headed toward Nadine Lucille at the cash register. In a few minutes we would all be on our way to a full day of bass fishin' and fun in the sun. Our conversation in Andy's restaurant would soon be all but totally forgotten by us. Besides, it didn't make no never mind. See it was just another cool and early summer morning in the backwoods of Southern America , the birthplace of a great nation. All in all it was just normal mornin' in Dixie Land , with a normal conversation.

This is an excerpt from Gary's book, "Bubba's Dawg Might be a Redneck" Available here.

I have a followup book for Nate Grisham titled, "White Wolf Creek" and the renowned artist, Carlos Hadaway, created the cover for this book.  See more of his fine work at: http://www.thearizonakid.com  He may be contacted by email at: mailto:info@thearizonakid.com .  Visit the studio and see of the fine work done by this man!  His work is a real inspiration to my writing.  If you didn't notice, on the book cover are three white wolves, which makes the cover match the title, which is unusual for many books.

In this book, Nate and Cotton Top are old men now, well into their fifties and still working, but not as mountain men any longer.  The beaver market has dried up, so the two me are now cowboys with a mountian man's mind in each.  They get involved in some serious doin's, a couple of killings, bushwhacking, cattle rustlin' and even a bank robbery!  As a result of their mountain man backgrounds the two are hired by an English Lord, who buys the nearby Circle C Ranch, to find out what is going on.  Cattle are missing, people are dead and the bank has been robbed.  It could be the town's crooked lawyer, the Marshal, or even the previous owner of the Circle C...but is it?

W.R. Benton

The gifted Canadian artist, Carl Shinkaruk, did the cover for "Missouri in Flames, I Rode with Jesse James" and I absolutely love it!  Carl is a very talented man and you can see more of his work by clicking here.  I think this painting captures the feelings I had behind the book as I wrote it.  You can almost smell the smoke from a battle hear the guns as they fire!

But, I love the dark colors that contrast with the lighter ones to give a feeling of loneliness, in my opinion. 

I've been swamped proofing and editing, so if my spelling and such are off a mite, give me a break!   LOL...I've read over four hundred pages the last few days and not for enjoyment either.

The Jesse James book is special.  As I say in the

My Great-Grandmother, Nancy Buck, often told me stories of the James Gang when I was a young boy.  She was born in 1859, or so she said, and lived for a little more than 100 years.   Grandma Buck was a typical of many frontier women; she used snuff, lived a hard life and could make a meal from almost nothing.  However, she differed from many others; in she claimed she’d known the James Gang personally.  Since she’d spent her entire life in the Missouri Ozark Mountains, there is a good chance she did in fact meet them at some point.  

Grandma stated more than once one of the James boys stopped at her dad’s farm to rest, eat, or borrow a horse.  Her father, she always reminded me with a big grin, was never concerned about repayment.   He might wake up one morning with a new horse and a bill of sale tied to the porch, or a small sack of money on the doorstep, or perhaps even something he needed badly in the barn.  “Besides,” as Grandma used to say, “them James boys were Missouri boys and we didn’t turn our backs on our own.”

She told me how the local folks in Little Dixie (Southern sympathizers in the Missouri Valley heartland) thought of the James Gang as their own personal heroes, men still fighting the DamnedYankees (yes, my Grandma pronounced it as one word) for the rights of the poor and to avenge the defeated South.  When I asked about the killings that occurred during the robberies, I remember her chuckle as she replied, “When ya rob banks people get killed some times, but if ya only rob Yankee banks it ain’t such a big thing.”

I remember her telling me “Jesse was the good lookin’ one and Frank had all the brains.”  However, she thought Cole Younger was a very special man, not only was he handsome, but very intelligent as well.  Grandma Buck also claimed the Gang was ran by Cole, not the James boys.  Also, for some reason she didn’t care much for some of the other members of the gang and just mentioning the Ford brothers would bring a few minutes of hard cursing.  

Some of things she told me are in this book, though I doubt few of them are historically accurate.  Grandma Buck was a firm believer in the Southern cause, though not once can I ever remember the issue of slavery ever coming up.  She could, and at odd times would, talk for hours about states rights and importance of the Federal Government not growing “to big fer it’s own breeches.”  She claimed the Civil War was fought by the South to preserve a way of life, a culture, and most importantly the right to decided for themselves how to be governed.

Many of the names in this book are of men and women who actually lived during the time and while I have used them fictiously, the events they were a part of are document history.  Additionally I have taken the liberty of attempting to use a dialog that would fit the individuals known or suggested character.  This was done to make the story flow easier and for historians, who really know, I offer you my deepest envy of your knowledge.

Of Quantrill’s Raiders, William Clark, “Blood Bill” Anderson, Archie Clement, Hugh Archie, W.A. Baker, Jeff Emery, William McQuire, “Whiskey Head” (William) Ryan, and the James boys, were all real men living in a difficult and bloody time.  I have used them to add historical authenticity to the book. 

Additionally, there really was a 3^rd Missouri Infantry, a 10^th Arkansas Cavalry Regiment, as well as a 15^th Arkansas Cavalry Battalion (all Confederate units).  In addition, the 10th Arkansas Cavalry Regiment did in fact escort the state government of Arkansas from Hot Springs to Washington, Arkansas, though I have a very small unit doing the escorting.  Most of the characters in the unit’s are pure fiction, only the names of unit commanders and Thomas, Joseph, David, and a William Duval of Company C of the 3^rd Missouri Infantry were real people as far as I know.

Some readers might find it strange that I’ve use African Americans as scouts with both Quantrill and the 10^th Arkansas.  Black men did fight for the Confederacy, thought it is not well known.  Just like the North, the South offered a black man his freedom if he fought, but he had to have permission from his owner to join a unit.  African Americans fought for their country, regardless of the side, just as white men did.  I think it’s time for African Americans to be included in Western books and portrayed as the people they were, important settlers of the Wild West.

Regional names of places and towns are accurate as well. The town of Rolla, Missouri, was indeed a large supply point for Union troops working in the Ozark Mountains during the war and I graduated from Rolla Senior High School in 1971.  In addition, Cold Springs, where Jim, Bob, and Littlefeather hanged Coon Baxter, is there yet today and I was born about two miles from the spot (Vida).  The cave high on the bluff where Jim, Bob and Littlefeather hide on the Big Piney River and meet with storeowner turned spy Cisco, is located near Devils Elbow, Missouri.  And, of course, there is a Pilot Knob, Missouri.

The large cities in the states of Missouri and Arkansas were all thriving, but at a lesser degree, at the time of the Civil War.  Meramec Caverns, where I have Jesse, Frank, and Jim return to after the disastrous Northfield raid does exist and today guided tours are given to visitors.  I have no evidence to suggest the boys went to Meramec Caverns after the raid, but I chose to use it to demonstrate the cave was a spot the gang often visited to rest or re-supply.

Finally, the name Jim Light was selected for my main character in this book because Light was Grandma Buck’s maiden name and I wanted to honor her memory.  The attitude and thoughts of Jim in this book are to a degree, what I remember hearing from my Grandma.  And, just like Jim Light, Grandma Buck was a tough woman who lived when Missouri was in Flames. 

Y'all take care and stay safe,

W.R. Benton