Muzzles
“Muzzles!” … Muzzles! … Muh-zelles!”
On a warm afternoon in 1972, I stood in the rutted truck yard of a duck farm, calling for my best friend. At twelve years of age, I had absolutely no inkling of the frightening world that I was about to enter. That day terminated my childhood, my innocence, and my self-confidence.
“Muzzles! … Muh-zelles!”
The more I called, the more the beagle’s name took on an eerie, forlorn yowl, as if I was part hound myself. It broke the silence of that Sunday afternoon and echoed through the surrounding farmyard and woods. Where is she?
“Muhh-zellles! … Muhhhh-zellllles!”
Reining Muzzles in from her exploits was one of my weekend chores on the duck farm. The large truck yard in which I stood was a 40-yard open square, providing enough room for the trucks, tractors, trailers, and other big equipment to park and maneuver when called into action. The ground was a jumble of dusty ridges from the churning action of the big tires in mud. The surrounding buildings — garage, workshop, feed coop, old horse barn, and of course the hatchery itself — created a natural amphitheater. Here, in my Redwing work boots, jeans, and shirt tails flapping in the breeze, I yelled out, a one-boy show in this rural theater in the round.
