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This dog Percy is there when the dawn breaks, running beside the river and then
turning away, through the woods and up the hill, leaves crushing under his feet, his path
worn more than ten years, stopping to smell the holes where the chipmunks burrow out of
sight when he trots by. His fur is black and his paws black and even his tongue black, the
blackest of all chows, but he is only half chow and half mutt like the backwoods country
dogs that roam the woods around the old lady’s home. His black eyes are steady and see
the earth up close in the bridge between light and darkness enshrouded in a cool mist
from the Oogasula. Drops of dew sparkle on the evergreens and silvery and bluish
reflections dance on the clear water gurgling on the banks and streaming in the middle,
He runs up through the woods, farther away from the smell of the cold river water
and through the lower hardwoods and into the pine thicket up the hill where the new
shortleaf pines begin, growing every day, a few feet each year, their rough bark trunks
shooting out of the red clay and yearning for the blue sky. He sniffs the fresh pine
needles that cover the ground like a blanket before he crosses back into the hardwoods
and digs in the old stumps and smells for the chipmunks down in their holes. He imagines
their brown fur with the black stripe punctuated with white dots curled into a tight dusty
ball. He can smell the chipmunks clearly, can hear their pitched little grunts and squeals.
He growls softly at them, his fangs showing. He runs on and smells the scent of rabbits
and a possum and the big hole where the groundhog nests. He is on the lookout for
squirrels, the flying one in particular, but they are nowhere to be seen. The old man had
taught him when he was a pup to stay after the squirrels and to tree them and to bark and
point up with his nose, until he could come along with his shotgun. The old man had
become more and more wrinkled until he was carried off in a box a long time ago, and
had missed a lot of squirrels Percy had scared up. Percy runs on, keeping his nose to the
ground but his eyes look up in case the squirrels appear along the break of blue sky
between the pines and oaks and yellow poplars. The image of the flying squirrel coasting
like a bird from tree limb to tree limb with his four paws spread and his fur like a cape is
etched in Percy’s mind. He watches for the squirrel and dreams about him when he
naps…
Elmer Blizzard gazed across the land he might be the last to ever see. He took a
long drag on a cigarette and flipped the butt onto the ground and stamped it under his
heel. Up the hill from the river in a clearing used for a cow pasture stood an ancient live
oak, its bare branches stretching high into the clear sky like they were reaching for
something, hopeful even after hundreds of years of nothing while waiting in the cresting
field. Sherman himself had stopped for a smoke under that tree when the Yankees
burned a swath through here ninety-one years ago. Wouldn’t be long till the lake would
come and that old tree would be nothing but deadwood where catfish would gather if
Georgia Power and the government’s plan played out correctly. He reached into the back
of his britches and pulled out his .38 revolver and moved the cigarette to the corner of his
mouth and aimed at a bobtail squirrel in the neck of tree, pulling back on the trigger and
firing three times at the varmint. It shrieked and scurried down the trunk and across the
ground. Elmer pulled the trigger a fourth time but he had used his last bullet so the
empty shelled clicked hollowly. He put the gun back in his britches and scowled at the
He turned to take in the landscape. Down the slope the river streamed through the
gully, narrow but deeper in the cut of red clay between gently rolling hills. Pulpwooders
had clear-cut all the pines where the lake would go, leaving only a field of stumps, but
most of the hardwoods they left behind. Across the river and farther up, sapling pines
took over and stretched a long way back, the new trees courtesy of the Georgia-Pacific
Plywood Company. Lake must not be going that high over there, Elmer figured, and
wind. The road where he’d parked curved down toward the Oogasula and ran parallel
and close to the water for about fifty yards before it veered back the other direction in a
lazy curve, a mirror image of the river’s course. He ambled down to the water’s edge
where he stood in plain view of old Mrs. McNulty’s house, the little shack across the road
from the kudzu-covered junkyard situated in a flat low spot at the bend in the river. From
about a hundred yards away he could see her, squatting on her porch by an antique
bathtub, fooling with something under it, her back to him. She was a big-boned woman
who carried herself proud, her posture like that of an old Indian chief, her hair dark
despite her age. She’d been living in the house without electricity or running water as
long as he could remember, that tub sitting out front the whole time. A black chow came
hesitantly out from under the porch and stood next to her, his wide tongue hanging from
his mouth. The dog looked at Elmer and then back at her. Elmer turned to face the river,
unzipped his fly, pulled it out and peed into the current.
“Big water’s coming,” Elmer said. A long stream of urine arched through the air
and glittered golden in the sunlight before splashing in the stream. “Yep,” he continued,
looking back at Mrs. McNulty’s shack, not opening his lips very wide when he spoke but
still speaking loudly in a scratchy drawl, “the power company gonna flood you out,
honey pie.”
He zipped up and spat in the water, the little white gob floating on the surface like
board creaking like it always had. He was a little man, wiry, 150 pounds at most, so it
didn’t squeak much. Wasn’t any point in fixing it now, that old step, all those years of
being loose. She’d let all those things go when Ralph died. Ralph never was a finisher
anyhow. He had been promising to do something about the bathtub he had brought home
and abandoned on the porch a generation ago. The tub was chipped and dirty and it was
packed full of rags and shoeboxes containing car parts, mainly door handles and hood
“Hey, Elmer,” she said, regarding him cautiously but friendly—she’d heard
stories and knew he wasn’t a deputy anymore. “What you shooting at over there?”
“Hey…Mrs. McNulty. Aw, just an old squirrel. I figure I’d get him ’for he
drowns.”
“My old dog here is scared to death of guns. Didn’t you here him whining?”
“No ma’am. He looks all right to me. I know he’s seen guns before.”
He glanced around her yard and then down toward the river.
“What you still doing out here? They want everybody out today. Paper said you
“Yeah, I know it.” She was still squatting by the tub. “I’m just trying to figure
“Now that I’d like to see,” she said. “Who knows what’s gonna happen when that
She laughed, a hacking chuckle, and continued, gesturing across the road to the
vine-choked junkyard.
“Man from the state said all these cars will make this part of the lake one of the
best fishing spots in the whole mess. Sumpin’ about the fish wanting somewheres to
hide.”
“Yeah, I reckon they right,” Elmer said, turning to look at the leaf-covered old
cars dating back to the beginning of automobiles—Model A’s and T’s and old trucks, a
tractor here and there, a Stanley Steamer, all rusting away. “How long ago did Mr.
“Yeah, I wonder what he’d think of this. I guess this part of the lake’ll be fifty
feet deep down here in the gully. And I bet the top of that old oak tree will be sticking up
“I wonder why they didn’t cut it down, like they did all those pines?”
Mrs. McNulty put her hand on the tub and looked toward the river beyond the
junkyard.
“You think that dam is really gonna fill up the land, like they say it is?”