When a neighbor offered Atlas to my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird, he accepted the four-month-old Airedale puppy. Soon they became inseparable. For Atlas, a dog’s life was heaven. His luminous eyes shone in quizzical, mischievous anticipation, his mustache-framed mouth smiled permanently, and his wiry coat glowed like amber. He had rocket fuel energy and an anvil’s tolerance for pain. With Jaybird’s constant love and care, Atlas grew from puppy-size to pony-size, and had three modes of action: eat, sleep, attack. Anything that moved was prey.
He especially loved attacking passing cars. On countless post-car chasing occasions he limped home, bleeding and missing divots of fur. Once he lost half an ear. Jaybird decided to attach a burlap bag to a tire on his pickup that would flip Atlas painfully and break the bad habit. After securing the bag to a hubcap, he drove by. Atlas chomped the bag, whirled in a furry, dusty blur, and galloped triumphantly away with a mouthful of burlap.
Once when a funeral procession passed, Atlas attacked in Airedale ecstasy and was hit by the hearse, bringing the entire procession to a halt. When the driver tried to comfort the howling hound, Atlas latched on to his coat’s long tail and shredded it. Atlas limped around in a cast for a month.
An advertisement for electronic collars “guaranteed to break car-chasing dogs, or your money back” caught Jaybird’s eye, and he ordered one. Two spikes poking from a receiver would send a strong shock when activated by a toggle switch on the remote control. “This will cure you of car chasing,” Jaybird thought, wrongly.
Jaybird and I sat under a roadside shade tree, and Atlas, fully recovered and sporting his new collar, took up his usual ambush position. Soon, far down the blacktop, an amorphous blur took shape in the rising heat eddies. Atlas crouched, one and a half ears rotating. When he attacked, Jaybird flipped the toggle switch. Instantly, Atlas cart-wheeled, landed on his feet, still in hot pursuit, and pogoed up and down as Jaybird repeatedly jabbed the switch, all to no avail. The collar did not dishearten Atlas the attacker.
When age slowed Atlas down, he finally gave up chasing cars, and spent his days snoozing in the backyard. One morning, as Jaybird went out to feed him, an armadillo appeared. Despite age, arthritic joints, and missing teeth, he attacked with all the gusto of his younger days, repeatedly pouncing on the creature, trying every way he could to get a tooth-hold on the armor-like shell. His excited whines increased in intensity. Suddenly, he yelped painfully, staggered sideways, and fell. At last, Atlas’ warrior heart failed.
Jaybird flew to his side. A dog trusts his eyes and ears, but when he really wants to know something, he trusts his nose. Atlas snuffed the old black man’s hands, woofed one last time, and resumed attacking in hound heaven. To the very end, he was what he always was: Atlas, the attacking Airedale.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
When a neighbor offered Atlas to my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird, he accepted the four-month-old Airedale puppy. Soon they became inseparable. For Atlas, a dog’s life was heaven. His luminous eyes shone in quizzical, mischievous anticipation, his mustache-framed mouth smiled permanently, and his wiry coat glowed like amber. He had rocket fuel energy and an anvil’s tolerance for pain. With Jaybird’s constant love and care, Atlas grew from puppy-size to pony-size, and had three modes of action: eat, sleep, attack. Anything that moved was prey.
He especially loved attacking passing cars. On countless post-car chasing occasions he limped home, bleeding and missing divots of fur. Once he lost half an ear. Jaybird decided to attach a burlap bag to a tire on his pickup that would flip Atlas painfully and break the bad habit. After securing the bag to a hubcap, he drove by. Atlas chomped the bag, whirled in a furry, dusty blur, and galloped triumphantly away with a mouthful of burlap.
