Buck Vs. the Bulldog Ants

By David Kersey

Buck, a Golden Retriever, (the narrator), and eleven other animals on the estate, have learned to speak, assemble, co-exist, and solve problems despite their quirkiness that mirrors humanity. When threatened by a terrorist attack that spreads to the entire country, they find a way to survive through hardship and loss, and love for each other. Includes military canine training and more. Four parts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Kersey
• Release date: Sep 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781628474510

David Kersey

David Kersey is semi-retired and living in Naples, Florida

Book preview

PART ONE – THE INVASION

CHAPTER ONE

The meadow was unusually ablaze that late spring day. Courting the dusty emerald of wild alfalfa a sea of lavender slowed danced in lovers’ bliss, joined by sunflowers swaying in obedience to the warm Midwestern breeze. Boisterous primrose the magical color of the setting sun joined in the choreography. The shady areas which abutted and were in the shadow of the hardwoods boasted a rush of English bluebells with an occasional clutch of daffodils here and there.

I paused my stroll to take it in again, as I had many times before. The meadow had meaning. A grand design that sucked the melancholy out of its audience. I was not the only one enraptured that day. Butterflies hovered over the actors, laughing about their new found freedom. I felt serenity throughout my body, like a cold shiver can entirely consume, however this was joy I think.

Beyond that, I knew from experience that my master, who is John Christianson, would have an abundant year. I knew because in years past the meadow wasn't always this luxuriant. The crop fields John farmed followed the lead of the meadow year after year. Though John usually toiled in fields not too far from this spectacle, he could occasionally be found plucking thistles, furze, and brambles that sought to invade this sacred mix of color. I helped by rooting up as many weeds as I could, but I did that more to earn his smile than anything else. He smiled a lot which made me smile too. I loved those times of walking alongside the master as he evicted the undesirable tenants. I think he loved it too. We were buds and still are. He's the one who named me Buck. I don't mind that name, I think it's cool. Better than Herbert or some other archaic name.

This was good earth. A place of abundance. Just about anything could succeed given the chance. Like neighboring farmer Jenkins had said, This is where God decided to put His garden. In my mind I pictured God pointing, and zap, a maple, zap, an elm, zap, zap, zap. A million creations in milliseconds. Each with their own aura of fragrances, colors, textures, sounds, and moods. Yes, moods. For example, the maple. Magnificent in summer with a color, sheen, texture, and odor that slowly changed as summer gave way to fall, and then winter, when its crowning glory had changed moods from glorious green leaves to burned out browns that had fallen to mildewed, damp cushions on the forest floor. That's what I called moods. They changed moods in obedience to the law of the universe just about the same way every year. Magnificent. There’s no better way to describe it.

Even Mortimer would likely give an approving nod. Well, that might be a stretch. My thoughts strayed. I couldn't help but smile, like Golden Retrievers are known to do, when thinking about Mort. Or for that matter all of the others I would soon be joining in the clearing caused me to grin, even laugh sometimes. If you've had a Golden, you know. Not many of us canines are known for our laughing countenance, but it really does happen. We can talk too, it just takes time and laborious practice. So do many of the critters Mort and I had taught to speak in my nine years of growth. I have no idea how old Mort is, but I'd say as old as, well, that big oak over there. He's old. His breath tells me so.

Mort's mood never changed come drought or high water, bitter cold or scorching heat. His emotion level was as taut as a telephone wire, unlike many of us animals that could become fickle as a feather in the breeze. Mort was indeed steady and that made him a reliable and patient teacher, but as you’ll see, his oration was the speed of tree sap attempting to escape from a shroud of bark. Because of that the animals preferred me to dominate the class time.

We first had to teach our chums how to listen which frankly took a lot of time and frustrating experiences. Yet, they did learn, despite their differences. First things first, listening has to come before speaking. Like John had told me, ‘it's better to listen than talk. There are many who will talk without having first prepared themselves by listening, then observing, then understanding, and then speaking.’ I have learned that from my master. I know when to speak, and when to observe, and those things I will have to exercise in a few minutes when the others are in their places.

About the speaking, though, I trust you’ll find it not all that hard to believe, I mean for a dog or other animals to speak. For instance, the word TREE. You have to hear the word first, that’s 101 stuff. Then see the tree to imprint a link between ear and eye, then understand what it is, you know, its function. And finally curve your lips and tongue and squeak out the word TREE. It can be done, I’m proof of it, though words beginning with the letter T are a challenge for me. My tongue is too long to click off the roof of my mouth without making a contorted adjustment, and if I’m not careful the word tree, for instance, will come out three unless I perfectly place my tongue. In time I figured it outh, oops. Just kidding.

Back to Mort. Mortimer, who you might already surmise is a mule, was often heard bellowing loud heehaws without probable cause. Mules are strange, at least I thought so at the time. I had heard that incessant noise since I was a pup. It meant nothing, other than it might have meant that Mort was relieving himself. So I observed, and when I saw Mort raise his upper lip and brandish those huge buck teeth, and then conclude his abdominal anguish with a pile of steamy trailings, well, I had listened, and observed like John had instructed. It was then that I realized that Mort wasn't in anguish. It was an epiphany for me. He was celebrating, and that led to an eventual encounter that would change the animal life of the estate forever. Can you believe a pile of crap was so very instrumental in my next stage of growth? Maybe it works that way for a lot of folks.

The encounter happened about four years ago when I came across old Mort quite by happenstance. There he was in the middle of the clearing on a misty and cool afternoon. Mort laid his lazy eyes on me and just stared for a few restless moments.

Then he slowly opened his lips, then closed, then opened again, as if he wasn't quite sure he was in the mood to celebrate. I must admit I have known that feeling myself. After a few more moments, Mort brandished his yellow bucks by curling his upper lip, and out came a grumbling that closely sounded like Whazzup, only it lasted quite long, like Whhhhaaaazzzzuuuuppppppp? Old Mort could take a big chunk out the day when he decided to speak, and that painfully slow deliberation would happen all too often to the obvious chagrin of especially Methusaleh, but some of the others too. Well, all the others really.

As one might well imagine, I was profoundly astonished. I searched the ground aft of Mort. Nothing. No mound of victory. I could not readily come to grips with my usually keen hearing. I mentally replayed the sound. It wasn't the heeeehhaaawww that only mules are known to articulate. No, it was something like whhhhaaaazzzzuuuuuppppp. I stared at Mort and continued to contemplate. After a series of futile attempts to comprehend what Mort belched out, I decided to try to bark a similar noise. After practicing a few contortions with my lips, and experimenting with my ten inch tongue, I put some sound with it, and much to my surprise, out came rrrufffzuh. To which Mort replied nnnoott mmuucchhh.

So that was how it had started some four years ago. I understand the meaning of words because John had taught me to listen, which I did well and often. I understood almost every word that John said. Almost. By the way, I call him John in my head, but he is really Mr. Christianson, let's get that straight. He deserves my respect. Just sayin'. But speaking words was a totally new phenomenon, and it took a great deal of practice to make them understandable even to myself. I made it a point to listen for certain words and then escape off to the meadow to practice them. Almost daily Mort and I would practice with each other, but frankly, it was frustrating, for when Mort spoke, I would raise my paw and make air circles a few times in order to prod him to just get on with it.

I resolved in the next few days following that first encounter with Mort that I would carefully listen and observe the behavior of the fellow inhabitants of the estate. Those on the ground, in the air, in the ponds, and wherever I encountered a living critter. My master's lessons echoed in my mind so that, with practice, I could not only learn to hear what some were saying, but of much greater significance, what they were meaning. Beyond that, perhaps determine a need behind the meaning. No, I have never taken psychology classes and don't think I ever should since I don't know how to hold a pencil. Everybody knows psychologists must have a pencil in hand at all times.

I continued to practice quietly. I further resolved that if I was successful communicating with the others that I would be slow to speak. Not slow like Mort, that's not what I mean.

So today, despite my pleased mood, I know that I will have to listen well and diplomatically be slow to speak even though this meeting shouldn't be a biggie. Biggie is the code word that all twelve must attend because the welfare of us all could be at issue. A meeting of the twelve is scheduled to begin in a few minutes, and I envision the group already assembling in the clearing, except perhaps for Mort who attended when he felt like it.

The twelve comprised an inner circle of sorts, with each member of the twelve representing his or her own folk. For instance, Penelope spoke for the wild pigs that roamed the fields and forests both in and out of the estate boundaries. And indeed, Penelope, who the group called Penny, would be front and center today. Her clan was the object of a summary complaint filed by the squirrels, represented by Stammer. Aptly named, for he really did stammer. No one really knew his real name. Calling him Stammer didn't seem to bother him, he was fully aware of his impediment, which was accentuated by him stomping his foot in cadence to his stammering, like that would make his rat-a-tat delivery as smooth as glass. It worked for him.

The complaint had to do with the pigs relieving their persistent itching by scratching themselves on the tree trunks that had been marked by the squirrels. That was a no-no, because the pig's scent completely and disgustingly smothered over the markings, making the squirrels feel less distinguished. Stammer, by the way, and which I knew, would have been told by the other squirrels not to tell the whole story, that being that squirrels just don't like pigs. I would be careful handling this issue which surely was not a biggie. This was a two on a one to ten. But I also knew from experience that the squirrels could handle this problem in a flash had they wanted. They just wanted to make waves since squirrels considered themselves an orderly species, as opposed to pigs’ complete lack of self-discipline and slovenliness. Actually, I don't mind the scent of the pigs, kind of like it in a quirky sort of way, but I kept that to myself. That's one example of what I meant by slow to speak.

Most of the others in the group also knew pigs and squirrels were not the best of friends. Alas, there are prejudices in the animal realm. In fact, the last meeting involved an episode in which more than one squirrel was accused of being nut launchers. How demeaning to all of the swine kingdom for the squirrels to be in their lofty places throwing acorns at the pigs travelling underneath. At that episode, Penny handled herself well and placated her kin plaintiffs by saying it was just simply housecleaning by the squirrels, no targets intended. After all, pigs aren't too interested in details, just the bottom line. But I was almost sure I heard a cacophony of squirrel chatter, which I took to be giggles, right after the verdict was rendered.

I was deep in thought as I continued my trek to the clearing when I came to one of the estates two ponds, and as usual, there was Ferdinand, who also as usual, was half submerged and half on the bank. I don't think I've ever seen the lower half of Ferd.

G'day mate, Ferdinand croaked. He then lifted his small green leg and made a salute as was his custom.

G'day Ferd, gettin’ any? I replied. I always replied that way, and I also wondered if Ferd ever had moved from that spot.....half in, half out.....a condition I supposed all living things were apt to experience in one way or another, or at one time or another. Ferd took that a step farther in that one eye was trained on an aerial morsel, the other looking straightaway at me. Maybe that duplicity also applied to others. I had tried to affix my eyes that way, and it only made me dizzy, so maybe not. And so some can do what others can't. How interesting and wonderful life is, I thought.

Just then Ferd zapped his target. And then he looked at me with both eyes, and said, think dar might be a skiff in da wind, mate, an' it ain't jus da green stuff, somes my kin jus now showin’ up, an' I ain't too bloomin’ happy about it. An' new crits too, mate, sumpins’ goin on. I looked and saw that the green stuff was an accumulation of pond scum the last storm had blown to one end.

And then he said, Keep an eye out mate, I know I am. That made me chuckle, internally of course, but I knew what he meant.

I wondered about Ferd’s portent as I continued my stroll toward the clearing. The trail left the openness of the meadow and entered into the shadowed canopy of oaks and elms and maples. The path through the length of hardwoods was not long, only 152 paces at leisure but less than 50 if I was needed in a hurry. I'm fairly fast afoot but I'm probably slower than half the twelve. You could say I'm half fast, but that could be misconstrued, so don't say it if you don't mind.

Surely enough, as I was nearly through the trees, just like most every other time, I could hear the voice of Dorcas above the others. I wondered if Dorcas would be a liability if the community needed absolute silence for whatever reason. Maybe we'd have to tape her bill shut. Even so, I could picture her frantically flapping her wings and kicking her webbed feet and furiously fanning her tail feathers and still muffle out more noise than any of us could muster. And if Dorcas couldn't tell her stupid jokes time and time again she would pout for a month. Perish the thought.

How many times could I or anyone else tolerate the I got up at the quack of dawn joke? After telling it, or any of her other worn out gags, she would quack and prance around in an exuberant display of self-satisfaction, while the others either rolled their eyes or examined their paws. No wonder the group had shorted her name to Dork.

CHAPTER TWO

I entered the clearing and the din diminished to a hush. The group of friends were in or near their places, which places formed a nearly- perfect circle. That's why we called ourselves The Circle by the way. Eleven present, but curiously Penny had not yet arrived. The clearing is also nearly perfectly circular and totally enclosed by mature hardwoods. We were sealed off from the outside world which was good because we just wanted our small group in attendance, not a gallery. If we needed larger environs there was always the pasture, but what good would that do really, only the twelve of us had learned to talk. Well, that's not totally true but it's complicated. Thirteen is a bad number, at least that's what we told Edgar, the eagle, but the real reason is that he didn't live on John's estate. Edgar could talk though. Oh, forgot Ferdinand, he would be fourteen, but he didn’t want to be a part of the circle anyway, saying he was too ‘edible’.

Each creature had their own type of seat, either fashioned by the use of rocks or tree stumps, or in the case of Oliver, a low lying limb. Mortimer simply stood in place. I encouraged the use of assigned seating since that would lend itself to an orderly meeting and frankly some animals needed to be apart from others.

I seated myself at the six o'clock position. To my left at the seven position was Methusaleh, the mouse, seated on his small rock. Methusaleh was an asset in that he and his kin could burrow and easily hide. They also could dart here and there in a flash and not be easily followed. Methusaleh was quiet, calculating, analytical, and often showed no pleasure in small talk or other such nonsense. The accountant type. He had a pleasant singing voice which was sometimes heard once he got over his shyness. He preferred country/western, which style he had picked up by listening to the car radios of parked couples over on the dirt road by the cornfield. His singing voice was high pitched and crisp, so Wendell tried to nickname him Crystal Meth, but it didn't stick. I picked out the rock he was using as his seat and it suited him fine.

At the eight position was Mort, easily the strongest of the group, and oldest. He rarely spoke but when he did it would take entirely too long just for one sentence. The group strongly encouraged him to be a good listener. Good to see Mort standing in place. His eyes were closed, perhaps he was asleep. That might be good.

At nine sat Wendell, the weasel, seated there by proxy since Mort blocked the eye to eye contact that Wendell would have with Methusaleh had he sat at any other position. You should never seat a mouse and weasel side by side. Wendell was a prankster with a villainous bent. It was assumed he could be trusted since he always attended the meetings and had no priors. His strength was also quickness and burrowing, but additionally he was quite adept at sleuthing while being totally hidden from view. He also drove a hard bargain. I guess you could say he was the super salesman among us. He could coax a bird to give up its newly caught worm and then sell it to a cow for the small commission of an ear of corn.

At ten was the usual place for Penny, but she had still not arrived. Penny could always be counted on to do whatever was needed without so much as a peep. Always agreeable and non-aggressive. Strange she wasn't here yet. That was not like her one bit and it caused me some concern since she would be the defendant in today's arbitration.

At eleven sat Stammer. I had intentionally seated Stammer next to Penny since Penny was so likeable I thought it might do some repair work with the contentiousness between the squirrels and pigs. Still a work in progress.

Stammer had valuable skills. He could flit from tree to tree high above the ground. He also had a bagful of gestures that were signals to the others while being displayed in silence. Stammer had a noticeable trait of self-importance which was so opposed to Penny's demeanor. I thought a balance might occur if they sat next to each other. Also Stammer's forced self-esteem just might be superficial. It could be a defense mechanism arising from his struggles to speak smoothly. But I can't hold a pencil so what do I really know other than dog sense?

At twelve was Oliver, the owl. Oliver perched on a limb a few feet above the ground and I placed him there quite on purpose because he was directly opposite me. Actually that was the reason I chose the six position for myself. Oliver was, everyone knew, very wise. It seemed I could understand what Oliver was thinking by just making eye contact. Besides the wisdom Oliver possessed, he could do one thing the others couldn't, he could fly. Well, Dorcas could fly, but no one had seen her do it. A little too much lead in the bottom?

And Oliver could see things the others couldn't, especially at night. His reconnaissance proved to be extremely valuable from time to time. Even though he was wise, and therefore reserved, he occasionally amused us when we would ask him to turn his head 360 degrees. The rest of us would then try what he accomplished and we heard nothing but necks cracking.

Diametrically opposite Methusaleh and his idealism was the one o’clock position of carefree Dorcas. Dorcas had no particular skill other than to lighten the sometimes somber mood. What really set Dork apart was that she would give you the last feather off her back despite her frivolity, and for that trait she was not only tolerated, but appreciated, though in secret. Dorcas was not a good listener. She could hear just one word of someone's sentence and then drive that word down her own little highway, then start taking us down that road before the other's sentence was finished. She did have an ability to see what existed below water surfaces which the others could not do as well, but that skill had not been called upon to date. After my encounter with Ferdinand, I thought I might need her to take a look around the pond. I'll ask her after this sham, uh, meeting is over.

Felicia, the fox, sat at the two position. Among foxes, Felicia is a fox. You know, a foxy lady. And she knows it, sometimes batting a flirtatious eye at anyone who might be looking at her. Her value to the group lay in her ability to evade capture. She took great joy in provoking the others to engage in a test of hide and seek. Felicia would almost always be the last found save for one incident that still rubbed her wrongly. If there is such a thing in the animal realm, she would be the fashion plate though very much the tease. I wondered if her demeanor disguised a touch of insincerity, maybe even deviousness. I would keep observing her. However, I had no amorous interest. You’ll see why in just a bit.

Randall, the raccoon, sat next to Felicia at the three position. Randall, the newest to join the group, was the least known. The group did know that Randall could scale a tree just about as well as Stammer. That might come in handy. He also was more alert during the night time than most of the others. He should make a good sentry. That remained to be seen. I had asked Oliver to keep an eye on Randall since Oliver could see at night just as plain as day. Oliver told me that so far there was not much to worry about other than Randall and his clan sometimes raided the house cook's garden late at night. Oh my, I thought, if Mozetta knew that she would have a conniption fit.

Cassandra, at the four spot, was in a unique position. Being the master's house cat she had certain privileges that the others didn't have. She had access to the house. I did, too, but I had to be invited in, whereas Cassie could come and go as she pleased via a small flexible doorway constructed in the foundation. Though Cassie was fiercely loyal to John, she would sometimes reveal information that only she was capable of secreting away. She had once told me in private that there was a secret room in the basement, and that sometimes a few men accompanied the master in to that secret place and they would stay within until the wee hours of morning. I had never seen the basement, let alone the secret place.

Actually I think Cassie is better looking than Felicia, but that's just me. I could go for Cassie, but you know how it is, what would the others say? I’m a dog, she’s a cat. Still, she is sooo easy on the eyes. Pure white except for a pink nose and matching toes and sapphire eyes that sparkle. Wow.

Lastly, at the five o’clock seat, was Rasputin. The group called him Raspy, due to the rabbit's gruff voice. Raspy was the type who knew everything that could possibly be known, and was quick to flaunt his expertise, which most of the group surmised was more fabrication than genuine. However, Raspy sometimes made valuable counterpoints that would cause the circle to fine tune the group decision making. It takes all kinds, right? Actually I thought Raspy was a decent rabbit. We just had to tolerate a know-it-all.

The individuals making up the circle were indeed diverse. Yet despite the diversity there was a unity born from the census that group preservation was as important as self-preservation. At least that was the company line. There were arguments, misunderstandings, prejudices, skirmishes, hurt feelings, and even cliques. Over time, the group had learned to coexist satisfactorily, yet I wondered just how strong the bond would be in a time of great stress. Little did I know that the time of great stress would come knocking in just a matter of days.

I was just ready to inquire about the whereabouts of Penny when I heard sobbing coming from the forest behind me. I turned to the direction of the crying and saw Penny emerge from the trees. She also was leading a quite large sow who obviously was the one sobbing. Penny's eyes were wide open as if in shock or extreme fright, and the sow's stride was shaky, staggered, and bent.

Though a circle member was prompted not to bring guests without prior approval, I could tell this was a situation more urgent than the planned arbitration. I motioned for Penny to take her seat and have the sow take a place beside her. After they had settled into place, I asked, What's this about Penny?

Penny tried to compose herself, and then began. This is my cousin Candace. She lives down on the Klein farm, which most of you know is about five miles from here. Penny looked down at Candace and saw the large tears leaking from reddened eyes.

Her husband Harvey is dead, they killed him.

Who killed him? I asked.

Penny whispered in Candace's ear, and then Candace got to her feet. Harvey and I have been together for four years. We have two piglets. Candace rubbed her eyes and began again. He, he, he was stripped to the bone, only bones left. We were all so scared, a lot of us left, oh, my poor Harvey. With that Candace collapsed back the ground and her body began to heave because of her resumed wailing.

The Klein people said it was bulldogs that got him, Penny said while stroking her cousins back. But not the dog kind, it was the insect kind. Ants. Candace and her children will be staying with me for a while. The ants, the Klein folk call them bulldogs, are attacking and no one knows why. They come and go, pop up in a flash-bang attack, and are quickly gone back to wherever they hide out.

I caught Oliver's eye, and I immediately knew Oliver had some insight about this. And then Cassie whispered to me, We need to talk.I motioned for Dorcas to approach me.

Dorcas, would you do us a favor? Would you mind going to Ferd's pond and taking a look around, especially under water, and ask Ferd what he meant when he told me that something is up?

Now? Dorcas asked.

Yes, now, and come back as soon as you can after taking a good look. And be sure to talk with Ferdinand.

I stood and explained to the group that the arbitration between Penny and Stammer would be tabled, and that we need to give a great deal of thought about what we just heard.

Oliver, do you any idea what seems to be going on?

At that point Oliver glided down to the middle of the circle and once alit he slowly examined the circumference to make sure all were listening.

I have an inkling, he said, that the attack that happened down at Klein's has been going on for a while in the south, and now it's moving closer to our area. I too have a cousin who visited me last week. He lives past Salem which is well past the Klein spread to the south. Same thing happened with ants at a couple places down that way. I am of the opinion that we all would do well to be on guard.

I said, Candace, or Penny, or anybody, what exactly are bulldogs?

Aannnntttts. Mort volunteered. Bbbiiiggguunnns. So he wasn't asleep?

Actually bulldog ants are about an inch long and are not found in this country. If you plucked off the wings of a wasp, that's what they look like, Raspy instructed. Ain't no bulldog ants around here, they's all in Australia. Not sure I believe any of this. Bulldogs can't take down a full grown hog, no way. Excuse my bluntness, ma'am, that's just the way it is.

I distinctly heard Wendell whisper, Yeah, well you don't know your ants from a hole in the ground. I have very good hearing, so maybe Raspy didn't hear that despite his big ears.

Candace countered by explaining that her Harvey had a bad heart. He may have had a heart attack and then those ants ate on him, I don't know. All I know is that he's gone. He was such a good hog.

I could tell Cassie wanted to talk immediately, so I motioned for her to join me a few steps away from the circle.

There's a meeting scheduled for tonight at the main house, Cassie said. Jenkins, Klein, Loman and some others are coming. I think, since Klein is attending, that the meeting will address the ant issue. I'll do my best to get as close as I can but I am sure they will be in the secret room. I'll do my best.

Dorcas waddled her way back to the circle and waited for Cassie and I to take our places, then said, Ferd's pond is full of strangers: frogs, snakes, turtles. Kinda makes me scared to swim there. Ferd told me that those strangers are runnin' scared, just like Candace said.

I noticed that Dork's feathers were dry, but I made no mention of it.

Folks, it does sound unusual for an ant to cause the type of destruction that Candace is describing, but then when we add in the information from Oliver's cousin, plus a word of warning from Ferdinand, we have to take this seriously. I said, We will meet here tomorrow at the same hour, until then, gather what information you can. Get with your people and see what they know. Be prepared to share with the circle tomorrow. Consider this a biggie.

Raspy would not let it end at that. No way, sorry, none of this is true. The only possibility is that the bullet ant from Mexico arrived here in a delivery truck. But there's no ant in the world that can do what's being said. I do not consider this a biggie, I consider it bogus.

So are you calling that pig a liar? Felicia questioned rather loudly. Felicia and Raspy sometimes got in each other's face. I suppose it was because Raspy once was the last one found in a game of hide and seek, and then quit while he was ahead, saying at subsequent challenges that hide and seek was for juveniles who hide deep-set insecurities.

"Fox, don't you dare question me. You can't even spell rabbit, much less