I remember that red dog.

Daddy said, "Waldo, John!

Put those pups in this here sack.

Take it to the river. Throw it in!"

When we got to Jim Kline’s place,

the sack had got so heavy

we pulled out the biggest pup

and tossed him into the cornfield.

Jim tore out from his cabin,

his grey beard blowin’ back

like curtains in a twister.

We grabbed the sack and ran.

Jim was chasin’ us and hollerin’.

Whatever happened to that dog?

’Worst nuisance ever was.

Jim raised him spoiled to stay

inside the cabin. Worthless

in a hunt, he’d lag behind

just to walk with Jim.

Big, bristly red, that dog

would snap as well as not.

My younger children were afraid.

"You’re always welcome here,"

I’d say to Jim, "but leave

your elephant outside."

Jim would drag his feet

and fail to latch the door.

Then Ranger’d streak right in

and sidle up to Jim.

There was a one-man dog

—attached to a one-dog man!

So you really want to hear

about that red devil, Ranger?

than of me or anyone else!

In all those years Jim had him,

he never taught that dog

not to snarl and bark at me,

but I taught him to behave

with just a few sharp kicks.

One noon, I went to Jim’s.

It was too quiet there,

and the door was fastened tight.

When I tried to break it in,

Ranger’s back was hard against it.

With his deep, menacing growl,

that big red devil warned me

not to step inside that cabin

where Jim had died last night

—or there’d be hell to pay.

Well, it didn't take me long