Operation Genghis Gone, with Part 3

It’s been a bit since I added to the story of Genghis the dog. So I included the first two portions here so the dear reader needn’t scroll back and look for them. I have put the latest in italics at the end. My plan is to publish the finale on Halloween. A perfect time for a murderous finale.

He was the worst dog in the history of dogs. And all the kids on Grapevine Road knew it. He moved in to the house where the McAlister’s used to live. He had owners, of course, but every child knew that the dog was in charge. The humans were largely irrelevant, except as bipedal enablers of the mixed-bread hell-hound known as Genghis. It was his real name. Genghis.

‘Don’t they know who Genghis was?’ Bobby Adkins asked.

‘I don’t know who Genghis was,’ his best friend Dan replied.

‘Look, Genghis was this Chinese guy who took over the whole world. A long time ago. And he was mean as a two-headed rattlesnake!’ Bobby was standing, waving his arms.

‘I saw a two headed garter snake once,’ Candace said.

Bobby shook his head at the hastily assembled senate of children. He fixed his deep blue eyes on each child in turn. And like Lincoln, or perhaps even Cicero, he held forth with a fixed purpose and with rhetoric beyond his 11 years.

‘Children, friends, kids who have lived her your whole lives! (At this the others scanned the fields and gardens, expecting others to rise up from the dirt and grass, en masse and ghostly.) Kids, I tell you, something has got to be done! That dog has done terrible things! Why, he killed little Tammy’s baby kitty; we all know he did. And he knocked over the widow Barbour in the dark when she was watering her garden. (She said it was a bear but we all know the truth.) And every time we ride our bikes past his house when nobody is home, he jumps the fence and chases us till one of us wrecks, then he growls until he gets bored and goes home. He’s a pure-T terror.’

‘What should we do, do you reckon?’ Little Mark Roberts was always ready to follow, but he needed a plan. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think,’ he paused, looking gravely at the ground, ‘I think we have to kill him.’

A collective gasp went up from the children; it was one thing to kill a water-snake or a crawdad. Maybe even a blackbird in the garden. But a dog? And it was even worse than that. Genghis belonged to Bobby’s grandma and grandpa, who had just moved in from Akron.

Bobby did not show his full hand. He hated the dog for its anger and its danger. But he hated it more because his grandparents paid it more attention than they did him. But then, he thought to himself with reflection beyond his years, ‘what murder didn’t have more than one motive?’

It was going to be an interesting summer to say the least. Mark summed it up in his best third-grade voice. ‘That’s a hell of a thing buddy, to kill a man’s dog. But I’m in.’

Each one left the hallowed circle of friendship and went home. Their instructions were as follows: ‘see if you have any kind of weapon or poison at home that you won’t get whipped for sneaking out.’ Everyone knew that their daddy’s deer rifles and surplus Army rifles were strictly off limits. Machete’s were far-off dreams from exotic catalogs. A corn knife? Maybe. A ditch blade? Possibly, but it would be missed. So they went home and poked around, answering parents’ query ‘what are you doing?’ with the customary childhood retort, ‘oh nothing.’

And over a few days, they collected two Crossman pellet guns (the kind you can pump ten times and that shoots BBs or lead pellets!), a box of moth-balls, a pint of ‘Weed-be-gone,’ some rubbing alcohol, fifteen bottle rockets, a hand sickle, an aluminum ball-bat, a partly rusted but menacing muskrat trap and a sling shot missing one rubber band.

And on June 20th, they crept away to their hide-out on the hillside, the the assembled tools of their dark trade slung over Mark Robert’s shoulder in the duffle-bag his older brother brought home from the Air Force.

It was warm, but not too hot. The trail snaked along for almost a mile through hard-wood forests thick with summer leaves. It crossed a wide pasture of broom-straw that was not yet dry enough to rustle, and only seemed to simmer as bees and assorted flies buzzed over it. Spread out like commandos on a raid, they looked all around in case someone might be following them. They spoke in whispers in a forest empty all around.

The trail wound up a hill and down, then around a small knoll to where the native rock made a kind of shelter of three sides, its stones embedded with fossils of ancient sea-shells. It was a magical place for the children, where they went to hide.

The passing of cars echoed up and over the hillsides. And as they sat down in their fortress of solitude, another sound rose up over the rest, clear, carried on the warm breeze. The bark, fierce as always, of Genghis.

‘What’s got him barking?’ asked Dan, scanning the woods as if there were still mountain lions afoot.

‘Oh, Grandma and Grandpa were away, and when they come home he goes crazy. Mama’s been feeding him. She’s afraid for me to go over.’

Candace, ever reasonable as women (even young ones) typically are, asked ‘have you told your mama about the dog? If she won’t let you feed him she must be scared too!’

‘Sure, I told her. But she says that Genghis ain’t a problem and the rumors ain’t true, because all he does is lie in the back yard all day. She says he’s too fat and old to jump the fence and it must be another dog. And she says the folks love the dog oh so much and he’s like their baby. Some baby.’

Little Mark, whose lexicon of profanity was growing, jumped in. ‘Why that’s the gal-damnedest thing! I seen him jump that fence the other day when I was walking home. I was headed towards him but he was after some opossum.’

Dan remarked, darkly, ‘I saw that possum. It wasn’t playing dead. It was really dead.’

They all looked down in brief mourning for the deceased marsupial. Despite the fact that all of them had been terrified by hissing possums in the night and considered them demons. After an appropriate pause, Bobby brought them back around to business.

‘I figure we need a code for our team. That’s what spies do. And we’re kind of spies. Or assassins.’

‘Ass Hassins?’ asked Mark.

‘No you moron, assassins, killers for hire. ‘Cept we’re hiring ourselves.’ Bobby wanted a serious group, dedicated to the work at hand.

‘So we need a plan. And we need a schedule. Any ideas?’

Candace liked fireworks and suggested that in the chaos of July 4th, a crime could be covered up more readily. Dan recommended Labor day, given that so many adults would be drunk they might not know anything that happened. Perhaps they could even pin the heinous act on a grown-up. ‘Like put him behind someone’s tire before they pull out or something. After he’s dead, of course.’

But it was Mark Roberts who had the best idea of all, and everyone agreed. While they felt a certain urgency to rid the neighborhood of it’s K-9 scourge, it would be best of all if they did it on Trick or Treat. The moon might be bright, unless West Virginia brought them an early snowfall. Everyone would be in costumes and kids from all over the area would be walking up and down the street. They understood deniability from school. When there were 200 kids and nobody confessed, the crime couldn’t be pinned on anyone.

Furthermore, there was something exhilarating about planning a murder, even the murder of an aged couples’ beloved pet, on the night of ghosts, goblins and haints. It was agreed. The planning would begin and the act would occur on October 31st.

‘Let’s call it Operation Genghis Gone,’ Bobby said proudly.

Nobody else got it.

Part 2

Throughout the buggy, buzzy, humid heat of Summer, the commandos of operation Genghis Gone met. Sometimes in the back-yard swings at each others’ homes. Other times in their forest fastness. Still others, sitting on their backsides in the creek that wound its way down from mountain springs and on to the mighty Ohio. The creek where they scanned for water snakes (at least as irritable as Genghis himself), and caught crawdads and other assorted creatures throughout the days of warmth and delightful, languid boredom.

Nobody was quite sure what to do, but they knew it had to be done. Over the weeks since school had been out, Genghis wrecked his canine havoc all up and down the road. In the wee hours, cats would growl and climb up into trees as the dark, malevolent spirit ran barking through their otherwise edenic yards. Other dogs would come up limping, and ear torn loose, a gash on their tails or shoulders.

Candace heard the ruckus one night and went to her mother. ‘Mama, it’s that dog that belongs to Bobby’s grandma and grandpa. It’s out hurting things!’

‘Why Candace Winters, I don’t believe that for a minute. They were walking that sweet dog just yesterday and he was as shy as can be.’

Genghis, it appeared to all involved, was a master of lupine deception.

So, as cats disappeared, raccoons were lain waste and dogs cowered in the night at the sound of that bark, the urgency of their operation became more evident.

There was one sign of hope. And that was the night of ‘the Great Chicken Slaughter.’ No parent would believe them. And indeed, they were children given to flights of fancy. It was only last Summer when they all believed Mark Roberts’ convincing and spine tingling tale of Bigfoot, seen on a ridge above their neighborhood.

None of the hit squad were willing to accept that it might have been from watching too many episodes of ‘In Search of,’ or perhaps the ill-advised decision to see ‘The Legend of Boggy Creek’ at the drive-in theater. No, they were all certain that the hills and valleys were crawling with inhuman primates. Dan pointed out that the dogs always barked at night. Dan’s father, reasonably, said, ‘son, dogs always bark all night.’ It was iron-clad logic and hard to refute.

So it was that the summer of Genghis’s reign, and the children’s distress, was met with many a parental question such as ‘do you think it’s Bigfoot this time?’

However, when the Brown family chickens came up dead (the night they were in Cincinnati visiting a sick relative), the game suddenly changed. Grapevine road was a place where little of interest happened, outside the rare police chase or death of an unfortunate senior citizen born in the last century.

Suddenly there was gossip and speculation. ‘I think it might have been a bear,’ said Mr. Hall, who lived far up a side road. Irrespective of the fact that the last bear seen in the area had been shot by his grandfather 70 years previous.

Others speculated about hawks, raccoons, opossums, weasels, ferrets, coyotes and bobcats.

Old Jeb Green, survivor of terrible times in WWII and a veteran woodsman, came to visit the site where no less than 15 fine hens had been mauled, partly plucked and sent into chicken heaven. Everyone knew he could track and that he was a hunter unparalleled.

As a crowd stood around, and he circled then pen, he pronounced: ‘yep, it was a wolf. Thought they were all gone from these parts!’ There was a sigh and gasp among the gathered adults.

The kids rolled their eyes. Jeb was a well-known drunk. Sometimes they would crawl into his yard in the dusk and listen to his booze-soaked rants. Then they would turn away in guilt as they heard him weep for comrades and for his children who no longer visited. They brought him snacks sometimes, and he nodded thanks in his morning hangover. Still, what did he know, they whispered among themselves through popsicle stained lips.

Bobby had the first inkling of a plan. ‘We need to gather intelligence.’ All of them were in fifth or sixth grade, so intelligence seemed reasonable. ‘I’ll ask grandma to let him come out in the yard and you three stay in the bushes on the hillside and watch him.’ Dan had lately acquired a set of opera glasses after the passage of a dowager aunt. They were dainty, inlaid with mother of pearl, but were the closest thing to optics they could possess.

It was settled. With a bag of snacks, the three co-conspirators nestled into broom straw and blackberry thickets 50 yards from the Adkins house. Bobby went to the door and knocked, even as the dog growled and snarled.

They saw his grandmother answer the door. They all liked her; she gave them treats and patted their heads. In truth, this conspiracy caused them inner turmoil. It seemed bad to kill a man’s dog. But a woman’s? It was dark. But they were dark times indeed.

‘Grandma, can I pet Genghis?’ They heard him as a whisper from across the road.

‘Well sure, honey. I’ll get him.’

When she brought the dog out she made an observation. ‘Why, it looks like something has bitten him! He has dried blood on his face! Poor baby! What happened to my poor little puppy?’ She petted him and he looked up, drooling, but with a sidelong glance glared at Bobby. They locked eyes and both of them knew the truth. The game had to be played.

‘Poor dog! Is he OK grandma?’

(Better question, thought Bobby, was ‘what poor creature breathed its last in in his jaws last night!’)

‘Here, take him for a walk around the yard!’ She clipped a leash on to the dog’s studded collar and Bobby walked him a few uncomfortable laps around the small, but lush green yard. Rather, Genghis dragged Bobby. The children observed and took notes. He was part hound-dog, and appeared to have the large head and thick fur of something more massive. There was some discussion about this among the children, and a small but very quiet shoving match erupted between Dan and Mark, both of whom had dog breed books at home. Candace told them to shut up and watch. The dog walked slowly, perhaps sensing the heat. Bobby held the leash tight as grandma ran for her Polaroid.

Genghis was strong, and it appeared about 75 pounds. He strained at the leash from time to time. And when a small rabbit hopped out of the neighbor’s garden, Genghis snarled and began to run. Until he heard his owner’s voice and, as if on cue, he stopped and looked old and tired.

‘You don’t fool me,’ Bobby said to the dark brown beast.

As the Polaroid was snapped, and the other children watching, Genghis looked up at Bobby in mock love, but with a look that said ‘you don’t fool me either.’

Part 3

The Summer wound to a close. The wee band of pediatric commandos had done their surveillance, guided by books obtained from the library. They read about Sgt. York to inspire courage. They read about the sneaking skills of Roger’s Rangers, the assault on D-Day and the exploits of British Commandos. Dan read James Bond, Mark read a library book on tracking and Candace insisted, to general opposition, that they go to see ‘Ole Yeller,’ for a bit of perspective on what they were doing. The boys cried just as much as Candace, and swore to never, ever admit it. But their resolve was firm. The big dog had to go.

Soon after the pronouncement that a wolf had killed the Brown’s chickens, everyone realized there weren’t wolves in the area and the story faded away. More chickens populated the coop, which was reinforced. And Genghis, apparently realizing his error, stuck to assaulting passing dogs, unsuspecting small wild animals and more recently, disembowling trash cans up and down the road. This, in fact, was perhaps more upsetting than the loss of chickens. Many a man and woman went to their cars in the morning, dressed for work, only to find their garbage strewn across the expanses of their yards. The guilty canine long gone, tucked safely into his yard and sleeping off a night of depravity on the soft, cedar filled bed that Bobby’s grandma had purchased for him in Pigeon Forge. (Bobby had hoped for a Coon Skin Cap, but instead received a ‘Grammy loves me’ refrigerator magnet. A refrigerator magnet of all things!)

Still, despite their mission, despite their passion, the end of Summer passed with typical Appalachian glory. The Cicadas played their symphonies every night; the same notes but always different in volume and location. Fireflies appeared and were caught with absolute glee, a Summer magic difficult to describe to anyone who had not grown up in that sublime place. Mornings were spent doing chores (many of the children had family gardens), and once those were finished, the team was on its own and would chase and roll in thick, green yards, or follow trails as old as the mountains, snaking through blackberry brambles and under trees that had seen their own great grandparents. They ran to the discordant sound of music from the ice-cream truck, they sat in basements drinking cold bottles of Double Cola and eating Snyder’s potato chips. And they laughed, day in and day out, even as they planned murder most foul. For they were still in that wonderful place of nearly autonomous childhood, free-range humans whose liberty was unbound by any real responsibility.

The day before school began they met in their secret place to reassess. Their stash of weapons, transferred from their original duffle bag and now in a large, old cardboard box, looked like something partisans might have collected for some desperate, last-ditch struggle against oppressors.

The bottle rockets never made it past July 4th. Although as if in warning shot, Mark and Dan had fired them from a position of cover into the back yard where Genghis lay. No damage was done but it was, they reasoned, a psychological victory.

Everyone was afraid to even open the muskrat trap and none of them had money to buy parts for a sling-shot. Nor did anyone want to get close enough to try and club Genghis with a bat, or behead the dog with a sickle. So, they were left with moth-balls, ‘weed-be-gone,’ rubbing alcohol and the two pellet guns. Like many boys of that era, they shared concerns that the ballistics of a .177 caliber pellet gun would be sufficient to bring down a 75 pound dog. This led, as so many discussion, to a long and complicated discourse based on Outdoor Life articles, cub-scout meetings, personal BB gun battles with siblings and profanity laden arguments based on the combat experience of relatives. (Who had, admittedly, been much better armed for battle.)

Candace, becoming a young woman of 12, was a sensitive soul. And while her young maternal heart burned with sorrow over her deceased kitten, she cautioned the boys. ‘If you get caught you might go to jail or something. Like dog jail. I’m serious boys! And Bobby, you might break your grandparents’ hearts, do you know that?’

‘Dammit woman,’ said Mark, whose penchant for the profane had grown this year,’we don’t need you crying and trying to make us go soft. This is men’s work and if you don’t want to be here then go make us a sandwich.’

When Mark dusted off his shorts and stood up, his nose was bleeding and Candace stood screaming over him and pointing her finger, but he couldn’t hear through the ringing in his hears. The gist of it was that she was as tough as any of them and just wanted them to be careful.

The dust cleared, apologies were made and with all hands in, they agreed that this fall, on the night of Halloween, Genghis the canine terror would be put out of everyone’s misery. And may God have mercy on his soul.

Labor Day rolled past. The local high school girls no longer filled the air with the scent of cocoa-butter tanning lotion (not that the boys cared…much). The last families returned from their forays to Myrtle Beach with precious fireworks to refill exhausted supplies. Others went on final church trips to King’s Island.

The night before school started, three of the blood-thirsty assassins lay out their clothes, put notebooks and pencils together and fell asleep to multi-colored dreams after enjoying the intoxicating smell of new Crayons, which they would not need in sixth grade, but for which they begged their parents anyway.

However, Bobby could not sleep. His parents and grandparents were supposed to have an end of Summer dinner at the Ponderosa Steak House. Grandma and Grandpa couldn’t make it, however, come because Genghis wasn’t feeling well. And his eyes misted over with anger, not because the dog was dangerous, but because in his child’s heart, the dog was treasured by his grandparents more than the boy.