Roughly 100 olive green army men were carefully aligned in formation against and equal
number of gray men. This battle looked to keep my young mind occupied for at least an hour of
bloodshed and savagery. Cannons were carefully arranged to face the enemy, prepared to
barrage the opposition before the hand-to-hand combat began. It was the hand-to-hand combat I
was really geared towards. The cannons added realism, but a couple hundred men locked in a
dance of destruction was my goal.
I imagined bayonets glinting in the morning sun, Generals barking orders to Sergeants, who
deftly directed their men into the arms of combat. With a cannon blast it began. Plastic flew
through the air as volley after volley landed in the ranks of each side. General to Sergeant,
Sergeant to Private, the order was passed,
"CHARGE!"
A battle cry rose from the remaining soldiers of each army. The distance between each
mass was closed quickly and the shouts of battle and cries of pain rang through the living room
and most of the rest of the first floor, as this macabre playtime of a 7 year old boy filled in the
afternoon dull. My parents and grandparents were on the back porch sipping Blatz beer and
talking about whatever grown ups talked about. I was too busy to care. I had the command of
armies to worry about.
As the battle progressed, each side gaining and losing ground, another commotion filled the
space being used by my imagination. Growls, barks hisses and cries came through the door from
the garage. It had to be my dog Honcho, and at least one of the dozen or so stray cats that had
adopted my grandparents' farm as their home. Gray, brown, black, all shapes and sizes, all
drawn to the farm by the tray of leftover food put out each night by my Grandmother for them to
feed on. A quick rush of adrenaline and worry filled my body as I pictured my black mutt pitted
against 12 different colored cats, all swatting and biting him fiercely. I left my battle to check on
the one in the garage and was relieved at what I saw.
Honcho was only fighting one cat. It was the biggest of the strays, the only gray cat in the
pack. He was much bigger than the other cats, and because of that I assumed he was the head
of their little pride. He was big for a cat, but compared to Honcho he was nothing. Honcho was a
Sheppard - Lab mix. He was big enough for a 4 or 5 year old child to ride around like he was a
horse. Any fear I had for his safety was gone instantly.
I ran down the stairs to the melee under the fishing boat. I tried pulling Honcho out from
under the boat, but what kind of luck did I have against an 80-pound dog. He didn't budge. In
fact he just dragged me further under the boat. Briefly reevaluating what I saw, I knew my
chance of ending this lay in getting the cat out and away from Honcho.
Determined, and with a mission, I crawled under the trailer. My presence under the boat
had stopped the fighting, but the barking and hissing continued. The end of the fighting helped
my convince myself that what I was doing was a good idea. I crawled closer to the gray and
reached out to take hold of him behind the neck. As my hand approached the gray, he turned
swiftly on his hind legs and lunged. Paws extending in a very narrow but quick arch, he struck
me square on the left cheek. A trail of four scarlet colored scratches marked the passing of his
paw across my face. This was enough to get Honcho going again, and he attacked the gray,
driving him from the garage.
Screaming more from fear than from pain, I ran to my parents on the porch. I babbled and
sniffed out a brief description of what occurred.
"Which cat?" my grandpa asked.
"The big gray one." I sobbed.
Sure that swift justice was to follow, I watched grandpa get up and go in the house. I wiped
my cheek and nose and slowly calmed down. Grandma came out of the house shortly after with
a wet washcloth, and an angry look on her face. I was sure that I had to be the cause of this look
and was prepared to defend myself for helping my dog. All this worry disappeared as my
grandfather emerged from the house behind her, 12 gauge in hand.
"Need any help." My father asked.
"Nope, just going hunting. Shouldn't take long." He replied, filling the gun with shotgun
shells.
As grandpa walked off, heading towards the green and white machine shed the pack of cats
has adopted as their den, I slowly realized what was to occur. I stood up, ears ringing, eyes
shifting from grandpa to my mom.
"What's he hunting Mom?" I asked. I knew the answer, but wasn't sure if I liked it or not.
"Nothing honey, let's take another look at that cheek."
I slowly pulled the cloth from my cheek, but couldn't pull my gaze from the open door of the
machine shed. My grandpa was in there with the tractors and the combines. In the dark I could
barely make out his shape, stooping to look under each machine and behind each barrel. He
worked his way slowly from one side of the shed to the other. Suddenly he swooped behind one
of the barrels with his large weathered hand and pulled up the gray. He walked off to the other
side of the shed and out the back door. I stayed transfixed on that door. I waited and watched
for any movement.
A tabby cat wandered around the edge of the open door to the shed and emerged in the
sunlight. He lay down on a patch of green grass that has sprouted up in the middle of the
otherwise gravel road. It's green a stark contrast to the rocky brown around it.
"It's been too long." I told myself. "Maybe he's just going to kick it off to one of the fields out
back and kick it off the farm."
POP!
Grandma shot a look at me and whispered, “Oh man.”
I sat on moms lap and felt the burning sting on my cheek again.