Porky Simmons takes charge. He's a big guy, much bigger than the Chief who took Walter through the snowstorm to have his bleeding stanched. I remember him as taller than my Dad, and as wide as my Dad and Mr. Borden put together.
Someone says that, "It's got to be done." Before I understand what's happening,
Porky unsnaps his revolver. In an instant, my attention is diverted from the agony of my dog to the sight of a real police revolver! How many kids have seen a real police revolver? It was a great and rare thing for a four or five-year old kid to see a real police gun.
It never occurs to me to what use it would be put. I am looking in awe at a police gun;
no signal in my brain tells me what is about take place. Porky cocks the big, black, shiny
weapon, strides into the garage in his big squeaky leather puttees and I hear a loud boom reverberate from out of the garage.
Georgia Cracker is twitching, and my ears are funny—I don't hear anything except
the echoing of that loud boom. I smell the smoke: it sort of stings the nostrils. Someone is shouting something about the bullet ricocheting. I have no idea who or what they mean by "Rick O'Shea."
I run to Georgia Cracker because I know that she can't be dead, and I have to make
her healthy again. Shouts of "Keep away," and "Wounded animals are dangerous." I hear them but I know that dog loyal bulldog would never harm me. Even after all these years, I can still see her body.
The world is not always as we expect it to be ordered. Someone is leading me away.
Now I understand. Porky Simmons killed my Georgia Cracker with his gun. Porky has put the gun away—at least he didn't drop the shell from the cylinder and blow the smoke out.
What's a boy to do when his faithful dog has been killed?
Being a kid in the 1930's was vastly different from today's experiences, no internet, no iPads, and certainly no television. What was a boy to do? If you were Paul Flanagan, every day was a new adventure, a new caper to be solved, and a vast array of friends, dogs and other unknowns. A tree to be climbed, a stream to conquer, and a new mystery to be solved.
Paul is a brilliant, witty and much-loved family man. The middle child of an Irish-American family, born in Boston and raised in the suburb of Randolph, Massachusetts in 1930, he entered Harvard at age 16 and became successful physician and loving Father and Grandfather. Paul has always been an enterprising and innovative thinker. From selling homemade whiskey to his paper route and other misadventures, the explorations of his childhood shaped him and compelled him to make sure his grandkids and kids knew all about them.
These "memories" are funny, sad, infuriating, touching and hilarious: each and every
one tells a story about him, and then, about his family. We all feel connected to them. What a
gift.
